


Somebody Else’s Sky

by crankipli3r



Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BRIEF mention of suicide at beginning of chapter 7, Be Careful What You Wish For, Blood, Blow Jobs, Car Accidents, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Lighthouses, M/M, Making Out, Museums, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Pining, Reunions, Serious Injuries, Singing, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Some Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 109,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crankipli3r/pseuds/crankipli3r
Summary: “I wish I’d actually had security fucking throw you out of my panel when you called Bob over. I wish you’d never done that backflip, I wish you’d never told me your fucking name … fuck, I wish we’d never fucking met.”—*—*—A heated argument leads Mark and Ethan to say things they don’t mean. Mark makes a wish he immediately regrets, but it’s too late. The next thing he knows, he’s waking up in a strange bedroom beside his ex of three months, and Ethan’s been scrubbed from his life completely.When he finds out what he needs to do to set things right, hopelessness sets in. What makes a fulfilling life? Does Mark need Ethan more than Ethan needs him? And how do you tell a stranger they’re supposed to love you?
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Comments: 292
Kudos: 837





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello there.
> 
> remember the note on that last fic i posted that said I’d be posting something else later that same week? well. it’s been a few months since then, but here it is. in all its 108K glory. i promise it’ll update once a day over the next 11 days. chapters will be varying lengths. the tags will also be updated as the story progresses to avoid ruining surprises.
> 
> i started working on this fic at the beginning of february — pre-COVID, pre-quarantannus, pre-Ethan’s breakup with Mika. this fic is the culmination of nearly eight months of work, and i really really hope you all like it. i’ve written so many fics for several fandoms and this is by far the longest one. and yes, it follows the “i-wish-we’d-never-met” trope. love me some of that.
> 
> there’s a few liberties taken throughout the fic which i’ll note at the beginning of each chapter. nothing super huge, but i will say i had to learn so much about Portland, Maine, to make this story work. now i really wanna visit there when the virus is gone. also, blanket disclaimer: mark and eef are both big ol crybabies in this story, kinda. i know it’s a little OOC but it’s a gay fanfic. what did u expect? 
> 
> ONE MORE THING: this first chapter is cheesy and mystical and i know that, i kNOW, just bear with me, okay? it gets good and a lot less hokey very soon. just hang in there.
> 
> this fic is dedicated to my platonic soulmate — they know who they are. i’m so glad to have been able to give them happiness through my writing.
> 
> alright. without further ado, i give you: “Somebody Else’s Sky.” (title taken from Pearl Jam’s song “Black.” you’ll understand later.) enjoy!!!

_“Plainly [love] isn't an exact science, despite it being a complex interaction of micro-decisions and corresponding thought; perhaps it doesn't always work and we pass by some potential soulmates like the proverbial ships in the night, never quite connecting. Then again, perhaps the system is tenacious and continues to run like a computer program on infinite loop, so that if at first you don't meet, you are drawn back together for another try.”_

_― Simon Pegg, “Nerd Do Well”_

* * *

“Why are you doing this? Why are _we_ doing this?”

“Oh, I dunno, man, maybe ‘cuz _you_ can’t resist the fucking urge to — to _prove yourself_ to me or whatever the fuck, even when — ”

“ — How does that even — ”

“ — Shut _up!_ — even when you know you don’t need to, and _especially_ when we both know you won’t be _able_ to!”

“I fucked up, alright? I know I did, and I’m sorry!”

“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t fix anything, Ethan. Sorry doesn’t change the fact that I gave you _simple fucking tasks_ to do, not even hard ones, and you couldn’t fucking follow through. Feels like that’s what’s been happening since the beginning.”

“ … What are you saying?”

“What am I saying? Huh, maybe I’m saying it was a mistake to trust you to hold up your end of this project. Maybe I’m saying it was a mistake to think you had the potential to be something more than you are. Maybe it was a mistake to look at you and see myself, to see a bright-eyed kid with talent and creativity and drive — ”

“Well, maybe it was _my_ mistake to look at _you_ and see someone worth idolizing, Mark. Maybe I shouldn’t have said yes when you called me and told me to leave my family, my home, and move across the fucking country because you wanted another ‘bright-eyed kid’ to work half to death and stroke your fucking ego. ‘Cuz that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“I hate you.”

“You hire up dreamers with stars in their eyes to do the boring work for you, and you make them think you’re their friend until they do _one thing_ wrong. You suck every ounce of creativity out of them, take it for yourself, and leave them empty. Then it’s bye-bye, see you never, ‘we moved on to different things.’”

“I fucking _hate_ you, you _fucking_ asshole.”

“Oh, what, you’re gonna cry about it now? Go ahead; that trick hasn’t worked on me in a long time. Jesus Christ, I wish I’d never picked up the phone that day.”

“Yeah? Well I wish I’d actually had security fucking throw you out of my panel when you called Bob over. I wish you’d never done that backflip, I wish you’d never told me your fucking _name_ … fuck, I wish we’d never fucking met.”

* * *

Mark wakes up feeling hungover, which shouldn’t be possible. Groaning softly, he rubs at his gritty eyes with one hand and rolls onto his side. _What the fuck happened last night?_

Thinking back, he can’t remember much. He knows he, Ethan, Amy, and Evan went to that metaphysical shop to film for Unus Annus, but he can’t recall much of what happened there. He remembers the store owner’s purple hair, the ornate pendant he’d bought on her recommendation, the way they’d all smelled of incense in the car on the way back to his place, but after that … nothing. Odd.

After a few more seconds, Mark gathers the strength to fight past the pounding in his head and crack his eyes open. It only takes a split second to realize something’s off — his bedroom walls should be white, not blue. And his hair — it’s long enough to obstruct his vision when he lifts his head from his pillow to get a better look. Chica’s bed is on the floor where it should be, but the floor is hardwood, not carpeted.

_Am I going crazy?_

Mark quickly sits up in bed to take in more of his surroundings, and what he finds only deepens his confusion. This room is unfamiliar, but its contents aren’t. Mark sees his dresser against one wall, his clothes in the closet, and a pair of ring lights shoved in a corner where he always puts them. There’s a few framed pictures on the blue walls; Mark grabs his glasses — rectangular, must be an old pair — from the also-familiar nightstand so he can make out what they depict. Strangely, most of them are of him and Amy — at the beach, at the observatory, sitting at a table in some restaurant.

It’s official. Someone’s pranking him. Mark has no idea how Bob and Wade managed to move him _and_ all his belongings into a random bedroom while he slept, but they must have, because there’s no other explanation for what he’s seeing. Ethan, the little gremlin, probably had something to do with it, too — he was probably in charge of doctoring those photos of Mark and his ex of three months.

Wait. _Ethan._ Didn’t something happen with Ethan yesterday?

Mark doesn’t have much time to contemplate that, because the other occupant of this bed has started to stir. Mark’s pulse accelerates even faster when he sees who it is. “Amy?”

“Mmm, yeah?” The brunette rolls over towards him and opens her big dark eyes, smiling sleepily. Three months ago, the sight would’ve made Mark melt. “What’s up, babe? You have another nightmare?”

“I … don’t know,” Mark replies, still staring down at her in shock. _This is impossible. Unless I really, really fucked up last night._ Swallowing hard, he asks, “This might be a weird question, but … what are you doing here? What are _we_ doing here, _together?”_

Amy blinks, then blinks again. She looks more awake now as her lips slowly turn up in a puzzled smile. “This is our bedroom,” she says, her eyes searching. “Are you alright?”

Mark shakes his head, looking around the room again and trying to recall if he’s seen it before.. It does feel strangely familiar, but he chalks that up to the fact that it’s full of his stuff. “What day is it?”

“Huh?”

“The date, what day is it?” Mark turns back to Amy, studying her face closely, trying to determine if she’s part of the joke he’s somehow found himself trapped in. “Amy, c’mon, _what’s the date?”_

Amy’s starting to look a little frightened, but she isn’t running away yet. “I — February third, I think?”

Yesterday was the second, Mark knows, so that’s correct. “And the year?”

“What the hell are you — ?”

“Amy, _please!”_

“2020!” Concern is the only emotion on Amy’s face now as she sits up and reaches for Mark. “Mark, is everything okay? You sound like a cliche time traveler from a shitty movie or something.”

Mark shakes his head incredulously, fighting the instinct to brush her hand off his shoulder. His hair flops into his face again, and he grabs at a loose curl with shaking fingers, staring at it with crossed eyes. “What the _fuck_ is going on?!” he exclaims, ignoring Amy’s question, before throwing back the bedsheets and practically leaping out of bed.

He finds a bathroom down the hall from the bedroom and stumbles inside, flicking on the light. When he sees his reflection in the double-vanity mirror, his knees give out and he has to catch himself on the marble countertop to avoid collapsing.

The person in the mirror is someone Mark’s never seen before. It’s him, definitely, but his hair is about as long as he’s ever let it get, almost brushing his shoulders. His face is shaved, a light dusting of stubble starting to poke through the skin, and his cheeks seem a bit more … gaunt than he remembers. Hesitantly, Mark lifts up his t-shirt — all his surgery scars are in the right place, but there isn’t much muscle on his abs and chest. Come to think of it, his arms aren’t very sculpted, either. Mark looks like he imagines he would if he ate less and stopped working out for several months — he’s almost as thin as he was in late 2017.

 _I have to be dreaming,_ he thinks, leaning in towards the mirror and gaping at himself. _This is a dream. I’ve had weirder. Okay, brain, it’s been fun, but I’m gonna wake up now._

Mark squeezes his eyes shut tight and concentrates on wakefulness, trying to feel the blankets around him, smell the fabric softener he’d washed his pillowcase with two days ago. It doesn’t work. When he opens his eyes, he’s still standing in an unfamiliar bathroom, staring at an unfamiliar reflection and trying not to have a full-on mental break. His chest is burning, his lungs can’t get enough air, oh god, _what the fuck is happening —_

Just as he’s about to start yanking on his own hair to see if that will snap him out of this delusion, Mark hears a blessedly familiar jingling sound. He looks out to the hallway and sees Chica trotting up to him, completely unchanged, looking at him with the same love and trust in her eyes as always. It takes all Mark’s strength not to burst into tears on the spot. He drops to his knees on the tile floor and gathers the dog in his arms, focusing on the softness of her yellow fur and the rhythm of her rapid breaths. “Chica,” he chokes out, burying his trembling fingers in her pelt and tucking his nose into her neck. “Oh my god, Chica, I love you, I’m so happy to see you, pup … ”

While he’s hugging Chica like she could disappear at any moment, Mark tries to even out his breathing and refocus his thoughts. It’s becoming clearer by the second that all of this is real, and he’s not gonna be waking up from this dream (nightmare?) anytime soon. He doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know why, but he must be in some kind of … mirror ‘verse, or something, where everything’s different enough to be jarring but familiar enough to not feel threatening. It sounds like the plot of an indie game, or a low-budget horror movie, but Mark can’t find any evidence to suggest it’s anything but real. According to Amy, it’s February 3, 2020, so he hasn’t time travelled. It’s not time that’s fucked up, then, it’s just space, which. Mark isn’t sure which is worse.

Okay. Okay, so now he’s got kind of a grasp on what’s going on— strangely, it’s not a huge leap for his brain to make. First things first: he has to figure out how he got here, and how to get back to his own version of reality, assuming that’s even possible. Something must’ve happened yesterday to trigger this … this _cosmic shift,_ or whatever the fuck. He’s gotta think back, pore over everything he’d done and said yesterday that could have —

“Mark?” Suddenly Amy’s standing in the bathroom doorway. She kneels down and ducks her head to meet Mark’s eyes as they crack open. “What is going on with you?” she asks, soft and cautious, as she rests a careful hand on Mark’s arm like she’s trying to soothe a wild animal.

Mark shakes his head wordlessly, still clinging to Chica. This dog is the only thing he’s seen since he woke up that doesn’t seem fundamentally changed somehow, and he can’t bear to let her go yet. He takes a few deep but unsteady breaths before he trusts himself to speak without screaming. “Y-You’re my girlfriend?”

“Uh, last I checked, yeah.” Amy looks perplexed, but she’s so patient. Mark never stopped loving that about her.

“And this — this is our house.”

“Mmhmm.”

“We’ve lived here for awhile?”

“Mark, seriously, you’re starting to scare me.” A cool, petite hand comes up to rest against Mark’s forehead, pushing his (long, too long) hair off his face. “Do you feel sick? You are kinda warm … ”

“I’m not sick,” Mark insists, gently swatting Amy’s hand away. He finally works up the courage to let go of Chica, who licks his elbow before ambling out of the bathroom like nothing’s wrong at all. “I’m fine, I’m just. Really, really confused, and — I-I need you to answer my questions, okay? Please? Just humor me for a few minutes.”

Mark stares at Amy with what he hopes is his best pair of puppy eyes. It only takes a few seconds for them to work. “Alright,” Amy says, sounding skeptical but still patient. “I don’t know where this is going, but if it’ll snap you out of whatever this is, I’ll do what I can, I guess.”

She shifts so she’s sitting against the bathroom wall beside Mark, their shoulders brushing. The comforting gesture is grounding enough for Mark to organize his thoughts and work out what he wants to ask.

He needs to know everything that’s changed in order to work out exactly what caused the changes. So, Mark starts gathering basic info: what he does for a living (he’s still Markiplier, thank fucking god), how they met, when Mark started on YouTube. Amy tells him about his childhood, his popular videos, the collabs he’s done, his work with Cyndago and his friendships with Jack and Felix. Bob and Wade are still two of his best friends, as is Tyler, who lives a few miles away in his own apartment. A lot of things seem unchanged, which is a relief — Septiplier is even still a thing. Unfortunately.

From what Amy tells him, Mark figures out that his timeline and this one split sometime in 2015 or 2016. He still did videos with Cyndago for awhile, Daniel happened, then Matt and Ryan stuck around for a few more months before moving onto the Grumps. Mark remembers all this happening exactly the way Amy’s describing it, so he knows that isn’t what caused this.

When Mark asks, Amy gets her phone and pulls up his Fandom Wiki page. He scrolls through the list of his videos from around that time and realizes he remembers a lot of them, up until he reaches November 2016.

That year had been … dark. Matt and Ryan had decided they’d had enough of being treated like employees instead of friends, and they’d left. Sure, he’d hit 12 million subscribers, then 13, 14, and 15 in quick succession, which had been a bit overwhelming. But throughout that whole year, he’d slipped on his upload schedule, shirked his promises of weekly vlogs and Reading Your Comments videos, and generally felt complacent about how his channel was going. The fire he’d felt when he first started had died out, and it wasn’t hard to tell.

Of course, Mark remembers the video that got him out of the dark pit he’d fallen into: “Disco Discomfort.” It had been an idea spawned from a let’s play of something or other, and it was completely different than anything Mark had done on his channel before. Going to a park to hang out with fans in person and just goof off for a few hours? Unheard of. But Tyler — who had recently moved out to L.A. on Mark’s offer — and Ethan — who had only been there for about a week — had loved the idea, and off they’d gone.

Looking through his videos from that month, Mark immediately notices “Disco Discomfort” is nowhere to be found. In fact, every video they’d filmed during that amazing week — “Deerman,” “Christmas Can Wait,” “Lichtspeer,” and all the others — are just … gone. Looking into December, he notices the “Don’t Laugh” challenges and the “12 Days of Christmas” series are gone, too.

A low ringing starts in Mark’s ears as he keeps scrolling to early 2017. There’s nothing there of any real substance — no improv, no challenges, nothing but Subnautica, Resident Evil, Hello Neighbor, some FNAF stuff, and a few other random indie games he’d found on Steam. He sees a few charity streams, which is good, but the bulk of his favorite content from that time just isn’t there.

Markiplier Makes is gone. Mark’s mental-age-of-seven punishment is gone.

“A Date with Markiplier” is gone.

“Oh, god,” Mark whispers, scrolling and scrolling without even seeing the screen anymore. He’s piecing things together now, and his stomach feels like it’s full of gravel.

“What?” Amy asks softly. “What’s wrong?”

Mark can’t answer. His throat is closing up.

Hastily, he opens YouTube and searches for “Who Killed Markiplier.” Nothing. “Damien.” Nothing. “The You’re Welcome Tour.” Nothing.

Finally, he looks up “A Heist with Markiplier.” Nothing. Jesus fucking Christ.

Amy grabs Mark’s wrist gently but firmly, but he still doesn’t react. “What’re you searching for? I’ve never heard of those videos of yours.”

Mark ignores her still. He thinks he knows what caused the timeline split now, and if he’s right, he’s gonna be sick. Just to be sure, he searches for a video he’s watched countless times, both mockingly and with genuine fondness: “Ethan ‘Backflip Dude’ Nestor.”

Nothing. The only thing that comes up is Ethan’s channel, and he only has 150,000 subscribers.

Mark almost doesn’t make it to the toilet in time. Amy’s phone clatters to the tile floor and Mark empties the meager contents of his stomach into the bowl, his entire body shaking with panic and disbelief. Through the haze of frenzied thoughts flying through his head, he finally remembers the fight he and Ethan had yesterday, and he remembers the last words he’d spat before stalking away in a huff: _I wish we’d never fucking met._

Those words echo deafeningly loud in Mark’s head as he continues to dry heave into the toilet, tears now streaming down his face. He barely registers Amy’s hand on his back, rubbing soothingly, and he’s almost grateful he at least has her in this fucked-up twisted hellscape of a world.

This world _he wished for._ This is _his fault._

Mark doesn’t realize he’s sobbing until Amy’s flushing the toilet and wiping his mouth with a damp washcloth. She cleans him up as best he can, then wraps him up in a tight hug, pressing his face against her neck. It feels wrong — he cares about Amy, but Mark can’t not see her as his recent ex. Still, the hug is just familiar enough to weaken Mark’s resolve, and he clings to her desperately, letting himself cry on her shoulder for awhile.

Somehow, Mark’s wish to never meet Ethan has come true. He’s living in the world where Ethan hadn’t met him outside PAX East in 2014 and backflipped for him for the first time. Ethan had never waved Bob down at PAX 2015, had never run down that aisle and hugged Sean in the front row and backflipped in front of the whole convention hall just to get Mark’s attention.

Everything’s different because those two events never happened. In this world, Mark is complacent and gutless and only uploads generic let’s plays and the occasional sponsored video. Hell, he only has 18 million subscribers when he should be a few thousand away from 25 million. And Ethan … 150K after eight years of backbreaking work is not what he deserves.

Before Ethan, Mark had wanted to give up. His ambition, his passion for creating had died, and he hadn’t seen the point of continuing to put mediocre content out. The Mark who’d never met Ethan hadn’t given up, but from the state of his channel, he might as well have.

Fuck, and Mark can’t even remember what they’d been fighting about.

He cries and cries until his glasses have fallen off and he can’t stand the taste in his mouth any longer. Sniffling, he avoids Amy’s eyes as he pulls back from the hug with a muffled apology. Somehow, he works up the strength to stand and brush his teeth (he apparently still favors automatic toothbrushes in this timeline) in one of the double-vanity sinks. His reflection mocks him when he glances up at the mirror, so he keeps his eyes closed.

“Okay,” Amy says finally as Mark’s splashing his face with cold water. She sets his glasses on the white marble counter and Mark can feel her watching him. “Humoring-you-time is over, Mark. What the hell is going on?”

Mark sighs, looking down at his damp hands, clenched into fists. “I don’t think you’d believe me,” he replies, meek. Jesus, he just wants to go back to bed and convince himself this really is a nightmare.

“After what just happened, I think I’m pretty ready to believe almost anything you tell me right now.” Amy rests a hand on his back between his shoulder blades, rubbing hypnotic circles with her thumb. Mark can’t help but lean into it a little. “I’ve never seen you like this. Please let me help you. _Please._ Whatever you have to say, I promise I’ll listen and … and do my best to believe it.”

That finally makes Mark look up. He meets her eyes in the mirror first, then turns to look directly into them. There’s nothing but concern and love in their brown depths; Mark can’t help but trust her.

“Alright,” he says after a few seconds of contemplation. “But we should probably go sit down first.”

* * *

They end up sitting across from each other on their bed, with Mark wrapped in a blanket to stop the near-constant tremors wracking his frame. Mark decides to take Amy on her word and tells her everything. He tells her where his memories line up with hers and where they start to deviate; he tells her about meeting Ethan and hiring him and all the projects they’d worked on together — projects he, evidently, would have never made without him. He talks about Markiplier Makes and the tour and “Heist” and, lastly, Unus Annus — the conception of the channel, the crazy things they’ve done so far, and the unbelievable fun they’ve had along the way,

Finally, he gets to the last video they’d filmed: the visit to the metaphysical shop. “It started off fine,” he explains. “Just like any other ‘destination’ video we’d done — introducing the expert, asking questions about their craft, what have you. She was nice. I think her name was Shelly? Long story short, we filmed, we thanked her for having us, and we left. Then, when we got back to the house … Ethan realized he hadn’t finished editing that day’s video yet. And it was supposed to go up in an hour.”

Talking things out is helping Mark remember, oddly enough, because he finally recalls the incendiary source of their fateful argument. He drops his gaze from Amy’s carefully neutral face, staring at his hands in his lap. “He’d been home in Maine for about a week, and this was his first day back,” he says. “Some family-related issue, I think, he didn’t really go into detail. But he’d stayed at his dad’s house with shitty wi-fi and couldn’t help upload videos or schedule them for a few days, so I had to do it myself. Then he flew back on a red-eye and slept when he got home, so he only woke up to film with us. He just … forgot he still had to work on that day’s video. And this was, like, the third time in a month he hadn’t done his portion of work for the channel. So I … kinda blew up at him. We both said things that were … to put it mildly, hurtful. And the last thing I said to him — the last thing I remember saying before waking up here — was, ‘I wish we’d never fucking met.’ And. That wish has apparently come true.”

Mark bites his lip and wrings his hands together, picking at a hangnail as tears fill his eyes again and his throat constricts. “S-So now here I am,” he chokes out. “Here, in this — th-this real-life parallel universe where he never did that backflip and I never learned his name o-or asked him to move out here to work with me, and — I f-fucked up so bad and I have no fucking clue how to fix it.”

He sniffles and wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand. A listless one-shoulder shrug is all he has left to offer as he cautiously looks back up at Amy, who’s been silent throughout his entire tale. “That’s it,” he concludes, sounding pathetic even to his own ears. “‘S the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Told you it was kind of unbelievable.”

Amy nods, eyes wide but not afraid. She looks more stunned than skeptical, so. Small victories. “You weren’t kidding,” she says, running a hand through her hair as she looks away to think for a moment. “I mean … wow.”

“I know.” Mark dries his eyes and picks at a loose thread on his sweatpants, feeling numb now that he’s let everything out.

Well. _Almost_ everything, but. He figures Amy doesn’t need to know every detail.

“So.” The brunette takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You … You’re Mark, but you’re not _my_ Mark.”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Where you’re from, you’re about twice as famous and half as depressed as the Mark I — the Mark this ‘universe’ knows.”

“ … I dunno if I’d say _twice_ as famous, but I’ve definitely branched out more than it seems I did here.”

“And we’re exes, but still friends.”

“Yeah.” Mark risks a glance up at Amy again, and finds her staring across the room, lost in thought. She doesn’t seem sad or even angry, just a bit overwhelmed. He feels awful — ending their relationship had been the most painful thing he’s ever had to do, and it’s a miracle they remained on such good terms afterwards. Having to tell this Amy — the one who’s still in love with him, the one who’s been by his side through every dark place and downhill spiral he’s probably experienced in this timeline — that he doesn’t feel the same is almost like breaking up with her again.

“Why’d it happen?” she asks after a minute.

“Why did what happen?”

“Why’d we break up?”

And there it is. The one question Mark had hoped she wouldn’t ask.

What’s he supposed to say? That there was someone else taking up too much space in his heart? That he’d started to feel more alive just from looking in their eyes than he did when she kissed him? That he’d never cheated, never even considered it, but there’d been a moment when he’d been ready to do almost anything just to find out how that other person tasted, what it would feel like to have them, just for a night?

Mark can’t tell Amy that. This version of her wouldn’t understand, because she doesn’t know the context. So he goes with, “You know me. I get restless when I’m stuck in the same environment for too long. I guess at some point, you — _she_ — became part of the environment I had to shake off to get somewhere else.”

Amy doesn’t respond. Mark bites his lip, guilt crushing him, and opens his mouth to — elaborate? Apologize? He isn’t sure.

Then he pauses, the reality of this conversation sinking in. “Hold on.” He searches her face as she turns to meet his eyes, wary but not afraid. “Do you believe me?” he asks, hardly daring to hope.

Amy stares at him for a few more seconds, seemingly searching one last time for signs of deception. She must not find any, because slowly, carefully, she nods. “There’s no way you just, like, dreamt you had this other life with such detail,” she says. “You have no reason to lie about something like this. The things you’re describing — projects you’ve done and, and everything about this Ethan kid — you didn’t just make them up. And you’re a good actor, but not this good.”

She shrugs, tossing her hands up in a gesture that says _it’s a fucking Monday, this might as well happen._ “Yeah, I believe you,” she concludes, not quite confidently, but firmly.

Mark will take it. He lets out an incredulous laugh and his eyes well up with fresh tears. “Thank you,” he whispers, relieved to have at least one ally in this crazy nightmare. After a few seconds of hesitation, he reaches out and grabs Amy’s hand, needing the comfort. She gives his a gentle squeeze and traces his knuckles with her thumb, slow and steady.

“I guess this means … you’ve gotta figure out a way to get back,” she says once Mark’s dried his tears and gotten his breathing regulated again.

“I mean, yeah.” Mark sniffles and takes his hand back, running it through his too-long hair. “I have to — I can’t stay here. This isn’t home, and I’m not — y-you love a different Mark. One with different memories and experiences and ambitions. I’ve gotta get home so you can have him back, too.”

At this, Amy bites her lip and looks away. Mark frowns. “What?”

“Um. You mentioned ambitions? Well … ” Amy reaches for her phone and taps the screen a couple times before handing it to Mark. “You — in this ‘reality,’ your ambitions are sort of … dried up. See?”

Mark takes the phone and stares, uncomprehending, at the screen. Amy’s pulled up the list of his videos, and the most recent one is simply titled, “done.” The thumbnail is just a frame from the video — his face, pale and emotionless, with tear tracks streaking his stubbled cheeks and no light in his eyes at all. According to the feed, it was posted last week.

He can’t watch it — can’t bear to see and hear the washed-up shell of a person he appears to be — but he does tap on the video to get to the description:

_Hey, guys. This is the hardest video and the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, but I ask that you please respect them both._

_The nature of this platform, and of life in general, is that everything ends. I haven’t felt really passionate about YouTube in a long time. Maybe years. I don’t know. All I know is that every channel on this site has a life span, and I feel that mine has reached its rightful end. The content I’ve been putting out for years now isn’t content I love or am particularly proud of, and I think I owe it to you guys to say goodbye to Markiplier as a channel before it devolves into something I regret creating for the rest of my life._

_You guys are the best community on YouTube. While my own contributions to it have been severely lacking for a long time, I’m unspeakably proud of each and every one of you for what you’ve created and the support and love you show each other every single day because you somehow connected through me. That is something I will never regret. Thank you all so much for being here for me for almost eight years. You changed my life and I am forever indebted to you for the opportunities you’ve given me and the love you’ve shown me for a big chunk of my life._

_I don’t know what’s next for me. I’ll always want to create, but I don’t think this is the right place for me to do that anymore. I always say I want to leave the world a better place than I found it, and to do that I strongly believe I need to move on._

_There’s so much more I want to say here but I think I’ll let the weepy idiot in this video cover it for me. Thank you everybody so much for watching. I’ll see you later._

_Mark_

Besides all the references to recent mediocre content, it’s exactly the kind of goodbye letter Mark’s drafted in his head dozens of times. There’s been moments where the pressure of keeping up with his channel on top of other time-sensitive, time-intensive projects has almost driven him to quit just so he could get more than three hours of sleep a night. He’s often wondered how he would choose to end his channel, if and when the time came, and as much as he somewhat resents this unmotivated, uninspired version of himself, he respects the hell out of him for pulling the plug while there was still something left worth mourning.

Still. It feels like something’s reached into Mark’s chest and started squeezing by the time he’s done reading the statement. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths and hands the phone back to Amy, doing his best to not scream. He doesn’t realize he’s started crying _again_ until she reaches up to brush the fresh tears off his cheeks.

“I quit?” Mark asks, soft and uncertain, even though the answer is obvious.

Amy nods with sympathy in her eyes. “You weren’t happy,” she says simply. “Everyone could see it. I don’t think that video came as much of a surprise to anyone. Since you stopped posting last week, you’ve mostly been sleeping and hanging out with me and Chica. You’re feeling better, but you’ve still got a long way to go before you’re a hundred percent better. Mentally and emotionally.”

Mark just leans back against the headboard of the bed and lets this information sink in. He wants to ask how long Amy’s suspected this was coming, wants to know how it went down with his lawyers and his manager, but he doesn’t think his brain can handle any more information right now. A few seconds later, Amy shifts to sit beside him, warm and grounding as always.

There’s a heavy silence in the room for several minutes. Mark stares at a picture of himself and Chica on the wall across the room and tries to work out a plan of attack. He’s got to get back to his own timeline, that’s a given, but he still has no clues as to what caused his wish to be granted or how to reverse it. It could be anything. Or, more terrifyingly, nothing. The universe could’ve just decided, “Hey, he’s had a good few years, let’s fuck him over like never before to set him straight” and sent him here to teach him some bullshit lesson.

At some point, Mark’s eyes drift to the open bedroom door. He pushes his smudged glasses up the bridge of his nose with a listless hand and squints a bit. From what he can see of the hallway, there’s only one door that’s closed, and it’s at the end of the hall. Hanging on it is a small whiteboard with “OFFICE” scrawled on it.

Mark bites his lip. “Is that my recording room?” he asks, nodding towards it.

“Huh?” Amy turns to see what he’s looking at. “Oh. Yeah,” she replies. “Um. You — no one’s really been in it since the last video was filmed, I think.”

“Can … Can I see it?” It’s weird, considering this is technically his home and everything in that room technically belongs to him, but Mark still feels like he’s trespassing on someone else’s life. “I’m just curious, I guess.”

Amy nods after a moment or two of thought. “It’s yours,” she says, echoing his thoughts. “Go ahead.”

Mark looks at her, easily reading the conflicting emotions flickering across her face. Finally, he offers her his hand. “Come with me?” he murmurs, almost pleading. “It doesn’t really feel like mine — none of this does — a-and I kinda don’t wanna go in there alone.”

It takes a couple seconds, but Amy eventually nods and takes his hand. He smiles gratefully before pulling them both up off the unmade bed.

The door to the room isn’t locked. Mark isn’t sure why he expects it to be. He opens it, then feels around on the wall around the doorway for a light switch. Amy finds it for him, and as soon as the lights are on, Mark feels slightly more at home.

The soundproofing foam tiles lining the walls are red and black — not to his current taste, but not the worst. There’s a couch in the corner and a desk against the far wall on which three computer monitors are lined up side-by-side in front of a mic. A camera — Mark can’t quite place the make or model on sight — is perched on a webcam mount behind the monitors, and beside the desk, a characteristically large collection of ring lights, soft boxes, and an umbrella light are herded together like a small, expensive forest.

The room feels … useless. Forgotten. Empty, despite all the random junk lying around. Mark can practically feel the sad, despairing energy emanating from the walls, and he knows the version of himself who put this room together has probably had some dark moments in here.

“This was your sanctuary for a long time,” Amy says, breaking the silence as she gives Mark’s had a gentle squeeze. She looks around the room with the wistfulness of someone who’d seen it put to good use before it was practically abandoned. “But at some point, I think it became more like your prison.”

Mark sighs and nods, understanding in a way. The room has no windows, which is something he made a point to avoid when he and his Amy had chosen his most recent home. He knows he wouldn’t be able to work for hours on end in here like he’s had to in his own office over the past few months.

He isn’t sure what he’d thought he’d gain from seeing this room — if anything, it’s depressing to see the capital of a fallen empire. But just as he’s about to turn and leave, Mark notices something on the desk that makes his blood run cold.

“Holy shit,” he mutters before letting go of Amy’s hand and rushing over.

There, draped over the keyboard in front of the monitors, is the necklace Mark had purchased from the metaphysical shop yesterday.

With shaking hands, Mark picks it up and studies it closely in the dim lighting of the room. It looks exactly how he remembers it: The round pendant is sterling silver and heavy and fits perfectly in the center of his palm. In the center is a large purple crystal — amethyst, Mark believes — surrounded by smaller pieces of lapis lazuli and red jasper. The stones are set against a background of dark marcasite, making their vibrant colors stand out. A long silver chain hangs from the pendant, but Mark isn’t sure if he wants to put it on or burn it.

He can’t remember exactly how Shelly from the shop had sold him on purchasing this necklace — it had been one of her more expensive pieces of merchandise, kept behind glass in a corner cabinet with other jewelry items and polished stones. Maybe she said something about luck, or knowledge, or strength, but the only thing Mark recalls for sure is how his fingers had tingled strangely when he’d first touched it.

Heart pounding, Mark runs the pad of his thumb over the polished surface of the amethyst and swallows hard. “I think I know what my next step is,” he tells Amy, not looking up from the necklace yet. “I’ve gotta go back to that shop and talk to the owner.”

“What? Why?” Amy walks over to him, pausing when she notices the necklace. “I’ve never seen that before. Is it … ”

“It’s the necklace Shelly from that occult shop sold me,” Mark says. He meets her eyes and closes his fist around the pendant. It’s cool in his palm, but it’s making his skin buzz unpleasantly. “This came here, crossed over to this timeline, with me — it has to mean something, and she’s the only one who can tell me.”

“Holy shit. This really is happening.” Amy takes this information remarkably in stride, but confusion lingers on her face still. “Wait. It’s not like she’ll know who you are, right?” she asks. “To her, you’ve never been there.”

“I know. But maybe she can at least tell me what kind of curse is attached to this thing. And, hopefully, how to reverse it.” Mark sighs and, despite his better judgment, brings the chain above his head and loops it around his neck. The pendant is a cold, heavy weight against his sternum, and it’s still thrumming with some unnamable energy, but he gets the feeling he should keep it with him. He has some semblance of a plan now, and it feels good.

Amy nods in reluctant agreement, then skims her eyes up and down his body. “Alright. But first things first, you’re not going anywhere looking like that,” she says. Taking his hand again, she leads him out of the recording room and down the hall to the bathroom. “Why don’t you take a shower and get dressed, and I’ll make a quick breakfast downstairs. Okay?”

“Okay, _mom,”_ Mark habitually jokes, prompting a short laugh from Amy. And just like that, for a brief moment, everything is normal.

* * *

The shop smells the same. That’s Mark’s first thought when he opens the door and steps inside — it’s a blend of about six different types of incense, he reckons, but it’s not too unpleasant. A small bell chimes above the door as it closes, and Mark notices the store is blessedly empty.

He clears his throat and fiddles with the chain around his neck. “Um. Hello?” he calls, walking past some shelves full of different colored candles. Shelly isn’t behind the counter. “I-I’m looking for Shelly? Hello?”

It hadn’t been difficult to navigate here from his “new” house, thanks to GPS (he at least still has his red Tesla in this timeline), but Mark had taken a brief detour on the way. First he’d driven past his _real_ house — the one he’s lived in for almost a year; the one Amy had loved because of the exposed cedar beams in the living room ceiling; the one he and Ethan have filmed dozens of Unus Annus videos in together. It appears vacant, from what Mark sees as he slowly drives by, and there’s a FOR SALE sign in the front yard.

From there, he hadn’t needed a GPS to find his way to Ethan’s townhouse. It’s smaller than Mark’s, but they’ve also filmed a great deal there. Mark remembers falling asleep on the couch in that living room more than once, usually slumped against Ethan. He remembers Ethan’s “ASMR Baking” video, filmed in that kitchen; remembers the non-peanut peanut butter taste test they’d done there together a few months ago.

It had been strange to not see a Mini Cooper in the driveway. Mark’s heart physically ached as he turned off the street and headed back to the main road, wishing fervently he could go up to that front door and knock and know who would answer.

Another bell chiming snaps Mark out of his reverie. At the back of the store, the EMPLOYEES ONLY door is swinging shut, and Shelly is walking towards him, purple ponytail and all. Mark’s knees almost go weak at how simultaneously familiar and foreign this is.

“Uh, hi,” he manages to say, approaching her and holding a hand out in greeting. “I’m — ”

“Mark, right?” Shelly’s soft, musical voice cuts him off, and she shakes his hand warmly. “I had a feeling you’d be back today. Your hair is longer, though.”

Mark’s jaw drops to the floor and the rest of his body nearly follows. He has no idea what to say as his eyes widen and he grips her hand so tight his knuckles go white. _That — She can’t possibly — Does this mean — ?_

Before he can make his voice work again, Shelly is nodding. “Yes, I remember you,” she says, her big green eyes staring straight through his skull. “You came here with your friends yesterday to film a YouTube video. And I believe you left with something important … ”

She nods at the lump under Mark’s black t-shirt where the pendant is hidden against his chest. Mark blinks, then blinks again, and closes his gaping mouth. “Y-You remember me?” he chokes out, skeptical but desperately hopeful at the same time. “I — e-even in this timeline, you remember that happening? How? H-How the fuck — how is that possible, how did I get here, what — ?”

“Okay, okay, breathe,” Shelly instructs, placing her petite hands on his heaving shoulders. Her voice has a hypnotic edge to it as she coaches him. “In and out. There you go. Yes, I remember you, and I know what happened. I can explain everything once you calm down a bit, okay? C’mon, follow me.”

Shelly flips the sign in the front window of the shop to “Closed,” locks the door, and leads Mark through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door to her private office. They sit down on a ratty, incense-infused loveseat — well, Shelly sits; Mark more or less collapses onto it.

Once he’s gulped down a small plastic cup’s worth of water, Mark finally feels grounded enough to start asking his questions. He meets Shelly’s eyes and takes one more deep breath before opening with, “How do you remember me from yesterday when yesterday didn’t even really happen in this fucked-up version of reality?”

Shelly smiles kindly at him, her round cheeks just rosy enough to make her look like a painted doll. “Reality is reality, Mark,” she says simply. “There are no versions or editions of it, there is only one. It’s true that timelines can get crossed and parallel universes can sometimes converge, or even switch places, but reality itself is ever constant. I see all of it; it’s a gift I was born with. So I’ve lived through every possible version of yesterday there could’ve been — including the one where you visited and purchased that lovely amulet from me.”

Mark has about ten million more questions he wants to ask in response to that answer, but he shoves them to the back of his mind. The important thing is, Shelly seems to know his situation, and therefore could know how to fix it. “O-Okay,” he stammers, pulling the pendant out from under his shirt and holding it up between them in trembling fingers. “What the fuck is this, then, and is it the thing that sent me here?”

Humming thoughtfully, Shelly reaches out to hold the pendant in her palm. She runs her fingertips over the polished stones, admiring them with a gentle smile. “This amulet has come in and out of my shop many times,” she explains. “It doesn’t have a name, only an energy that can make it suit the needs of the next person destined to own it. For instance … ”

She holds up the pendant between them and points to the small red and blue stones circling the larger purple one. “These stones have only been red jasper and lapis lazuli for a few months, ever since the amulet’s last owner returned it to me. And the center stone, amethyst, was once jade.”

Mark stares at Shelly blankly. He’s not sure if she’s helping or hurting his cause right now. “Are the stones significant, then?” he asks. “I remember you said they all have different, like, healing properties or something.”

Shelly nods. “And I recall you being a bit skeptical of that part of my lesson,” she says, a somewhat playful glint in her eyes. She can’t be older that 25, but she talks like she’s 80. “Yes, as a matter of fact, the stones the amulet chooses for each wearer do affect its energy with their own. Red jasper is traditionally known for strength, grounding, and stability. Lapis, on the other hand, inspires creativity and self-expression, as well as encouraging honesty and compassion. And amethyst … ”

In Shelly’s hand, the purple stone seems to almost glow. She glides her thumb over its smooth surface and gazes at it lovingly. “This is one of the most precious stones in the metaphysical arts. It’s a stone of protection, clarity, and divine inspiration. It has the unique ability to guard against negative forces by transmuting them into the most positive force of all: love.”

Mark resists the urge to panic again. It’s not that he doesn’t believe what Shelly’s telling him — hell, it’s obvious there’s some truth to this witchcraft stuff considering what he’s going through — but he needs more specific answers. “Did these stones grant a wish I made and create this timeline?” _Jesus Christ, I can’t believe that sentence just came out of my mouth._

Shelly nods, looking back up at him from where she’d been studying the amethyst. “That depends,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “Did that wish have anything to do with your friend Ethan?”

Mark’s stomach sinks. He swallows hard, then nods. “Yes. After we left yesterday, he and I got into a huge fight, and I … I-I wished we’d never met.” It’s still shameful, saying it out loud, and Mark can’t help but break eye contact to look down at his hands in his lap. “Turns out my life without him is … less. Less happy, less fulfilling, less everything.”

“I knew as soon as the two of you walked into this shop that this amulet was meant for one of you,” Shelly says. “Your auras ... Usually I can’t see them clearly upon first meeting someone, but yours were particularly bright. You’re red, Mark — strong, vibrant, full of ambition and drive and love for those around you. Ethan was blue — strong and vibrant, like you, but also creative and energetic and sensitive.”

Understanding finally dawns in Mark’s mind as Shelly points to the jasper and lapis stones embedded in the marcasite and silver. “Separate, and different, but complementary,” she explains. “And together — ” Her finger moves to the amethyst. “ — powerful, healing, selfless, _precious.”_

Shelly finally lets go of the pendant and lets it fall to rest against Mark’s chest again. “As cliché and improbable as it sounds,” she says, “this amulet knew the two of you would need an extra push to realize exactly what you could become with your ideas and energies combined. So, it decided to teach you a lesson. An extreme one, yes, but a lesson nonetheless.”

Mark shakes his head, incredulous but also relieved to finally know what caused his predicament — even if it does sound crazy. “So there is a way to get back to my normal life, right? The one where he and I do know each other and work together and … ” _Love each other_ goes unspoken, but Mark’s certain Shelly heard it nonetheless.

“Yes, there is. And I apologize, but it’s going to sound even more fairy-tale-esque from here on out.” Shelly gestures to the pendant. “Look carefully — do you notice how there are five jasper stones and five lapis stones surrounding the amethyst? They indicate you have ten days to prove you’ve learned your lesson, and to set things right. With each day that passes, a stone will turn black to remind you of the time you have left. If you run out of time, the amethyst will turn, as well, and your old life will be lost forever. Mercifully, you will not remember it — and neither will anyone here.”

 _Won’t remember it?_ So if Mark doesn’t complete this — this _mystical quest,_ or whatever — he’ll essentially become the Mark everyone in this timeline knows: a burnt-out, aimless has-been. He’ll still have Amy, but without ambition or passion, that won’t last forever.

Mark can’t let that happen. Under no circumstances will he let himself morph into Ethan-less Mark. No matter the cost, he will get back where he belongs, and he’s bringing Ethan with him.

“What’s the lesson, then?” he asks, heart racing in his chest out of is. “What do I have to do to get home?”

“Well, the amulet is clearly sending a message that you and Ethan are far better together than apart,” Shelly says matter-of-factly. “You need each other to live your fullest, most rewarding lives. So the only way to ensure that happens is for him to fall in love with you.”

Mark’s train of thought screeches to a jarring halt. His heart feels like it’s about to jump out of his mouth. Eyes widening, he chokes out, “F-Fall in love?”

_You mean the kind of love I’ve wanted from him for months? The kind of love I’ve only caught glimpses of in his eyes? The kind of love that made me dump my perfect girlfriend of almost five years to chase? That kind of love?_

_In ten fucking days?!_

“What you said to him during your argument was deeply hurtful,” Shelly replies. “No doubt he hurt you with his words, as well. Love is the only thing that can get two people through such deep hurt, and you must prove it’s possible for that love to blossom between the two of you. But because it was _your_ wish that brought this on, it must be _his_ feelings for you that save you both.”

In a twisted, upside-down, watched-too-many-Disney-movies way, it kind of makes sense. Mark has no fucking idea how he’s supposed to woo someone who’s never met him in ten days, though — nine, technically, since today’s already in progress. After a few seconds of steady breathing, he asks, “How will I know it’s worked?”

“He will remember you. Only for a moment, and only just, but he will realize who you are to him. In that instant, you will be returned to the timeline you came from.”

“And are … a-are you sure it’s only ten days? It’s not like … ten weeks, or, or months, or … ”

“Ten days is what you have. If this task were impossible, the unseen forces who guided you to purchase this necklace and imbued it with the power to grant your short-sighted wish wouldn’t have done so.” Shelly pats Mark on the arm, squeezing his wrist briefly. “And, if I may be frank for a moment … I saw the way he looked at you yesterday. When he thought you couldn’t see him.”

Mark’s heart splinters a bit. Sometimes editing their videos takes him twice as long, because he can’t help but replay over and over all the moments he makes Ethan laugh, the moments Ethan smiles at him and looks at him like nothing else exists around them. He knows exactly what look Shelly’s talking about, and the thought of never seeing it again is too much for Mark to bear.

“His love for you is deep and real, and it only needs to be awakened to flourish,” Shelly finishes. “Find him. Show him you care for him. If he truly cares for you the way he appears to, it won’t take much to open his eyes.”

All Mark can do in response to that is hug Shelly as tight as he can and thank her over and over for giving him the clarity he needed. After a hasty but heartfelt goodbye, he races out of the shop to his car and sets off back to the house.

He’s gotta buy a plane ticket.

—*—*—


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s chapter two!! sorry it was posted slightly later than ch. 1 was — i work nights and i had to stay a little later tonight, so i wasn’t able to get back on ao3 until now. since i’m off tomorrow, maybe i’ll make up for it by posting ch. 3 a little bit earlier ... :P
> 
> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH for the incredible love you’ve shown this fic so far!! it means the absolute world. i really hope it lives up to the high hopes you’ve got for it! 
> 
> it should be noted that I’ve never been to Maine, so pretty much everything i describe about it — as far as buildings and neighborhoods and streets — throughout this fic is based entirely on google maps and google earth imagery.
> 
> this chapter is a bit shorter than ch. 1, but i think ch. 3 is longer, so it should even out lol. enjoy!!
> 
> ALSO DISCLAIMER: DON’T GO LOOKING UP YOUTUBERS’ ADDRESSES ON WHITEPAGES. OR ANY STRANGER’S ADDRESS. IT’S INVASIVE AND BAD. MARK IS DESPERATE BUT ALSO NAUGHTY.

LAX is as busy at five in the morning as it is at nine at night. Mark has no idea how he’s even awake, let alone sitting in an airport terminal waiting to board a six-hour flight.

It hadn’t been that hard to find Ethan’s address. Sure, it had felt invasive and a little stalker-y, but it hadn’t even been behind a paywall on Whitepages.com. He’s still in Portland, Maine, as Mark had suspected he would be, in what’s most likely an average apartment building. Mark’s a bit ashamed to admit his first thought had been, _At least he got out of his dad’s basement._

Mark’s flight is scheduled to land at Portland International Jetport around 4:30 p.m. local time. He’s already got a cheap-ish hotel room booked nearby — there’s no way he could ask to stay at Ethan’s when they’re strangers in this universe — and a rental car purchased to get him around. Everything’s set.

Apart from the fact that he’s planning on dropping by unannounced at the home of someone who no doubt knows who he is and has idolized him for years, without the benefit of friendship to dissolve the shroud of his public persona.

This could go so terribly wrong.

But it’s not like Mark could’ve called Ethan up or DM’ed him on Twitter asking if he wants to hang out. Mark isn’t sure how he’s going to explain his presence at Ethan’s front door when it opens, but he knows he doesn’t want to come across as some vapid douchebag messing with a fan.

Of course, all of these thoughts take for granted that Ethan is a fan of Mark’s. What if they never met at PAX because the Ethan in this timeline was inspired by, say, Felix and has never watched a single Markiplier video? What if he never did those backflips for Mark because he just couldn’t be bothered to?

Despite the myriad of possibilities, something in Mark’s gut tells him he and Ethan are connected in every timeline. Ethan’s told Mark before how Mark’s videos shaped his desire to create, to make content that could brighten someone’s day. CrankGameplays as a channel exists because Ethan watched Mark’s Amnesia playthroughs as a teenager and thought, “How can I do that, too?” Mark knows this. And maybe it’s just his ego, but he’d like to think the Ethan of this timeline wouldn’t have a channel either if he wasn’t a Markiplier fan.

Still. Mark has no idea what he’s going to say when — hell, _if_ — Ethan opens his door and their eyes meet.

Too soon, the announcement comes over the loudspeaker: _“This is the final boarding call for United Airlines flight 346B to Portland. Please proceed to gate 73 immediately.”_

Mark takes a deep breath and stands up from the uncomfortable plastic seat, Amy following close behind. It hadn’t been easy telling her why he had to fly across the country to find Ethan, but Mark couldn’t have lied to her about it. And she’d still insisted on coming with him, despite knowing this could be the last time she sees him — well. This version of him, anyway. If he doesn’t accomplish his goal, he’ll end up back here with her, like nothing ever happened. If he does accomplish it … hopefully she’ll still get her Mark back.

Heart racing and palms sweating, Mark bounces on the balls of his feet and just. Looks at her for a second. She meets his eyes and smiles, sad but resigned. “Go,” she murmurs, gesturing half-heartedly to the line of passengers filing through the gate behind them. “Go get him. He’s waiting for you.”

It’s then that Mark is reminded why he fell in love with her in the first place.

He can’t not kiss her. With the fluidity of someone who’s performed an action thousands of times, he steps closer to her, takes her face in his clammy hands, and presses a grateful, apologetic kiss to her lips. She stiffens, but relaxes against him after a couple seconds, resting her own hands on his stuttering chest. She tastes just like he remembers.

“For what it’s worth,” Mark whispers in the scant distance between their mouths when he pulls back for air, “I don’t think there’s a universe out there where I don’t love you in some way.”

Amy just huffs out a shaky breath and flings her arms around Mark’s neck, kissing him like she’ll never get the chance to again. He kisses back just as urgently, wrapping his arms around her tiny waist and holding her against him. This is far more painful for her than it is for him, so he wants to give her something to remember him by if this all goes south.

He never thought he’d get a second chance at a last kiss.

Eventually, Mark has to break away before he gets locked out of the plane that’s about to pull away from the terminal. He gently nuzzles Amy’s nose with his own, catching his breath and trying to block out the feeling of wetness transferring from her cheeks to his. “I couldn’t have gotten through the last twenty-four hours without you,” he murmurs, giving her hips one last squeeze. “You’ve always been amazing and way, way too good to me. I’m gonna do everything I can to get you your Mark back, and I hope he knows how good he’s got it.”

Amy chokes out a half-laugh, half-sob and sniffles a bit. Her eyes are wide and glistening when she looks up at Mark and runs her fingers through his loose curls. “I hope my Mark never falls for a geeky gamer boy,” she jokes before dragging herself away from him. She pulls her gray hoodie sleeves over her hands, wraps her arms around herself, and nods towards the gate, looking for all the world like a mother handing her son off to his new bride. “Go on.”

Mark stares at her in awe for a few more seconds before steeling himself and nodding. He picks up his backpack carry-on, walks to the gate, and boards the plane without looking back.

* * *

The first thing Mark does when he gets settled in his seat (business class, window, humble enough to be stealthy but luxurious enough to give him real leg room) is purchase in-flight Wifi. Once his phone is connected, though, he just sets it on his tray and stares at it. Since arriving in this timeline, he’s only used it to book his flight and hotel. It doesn’t even feel like his phone, really, and he’s afraid of what he’ll find if he goes snooping.

There are a couple things he absolutely needs to do, though, so Mark knows he can’t avoid snooping forever. Besides, there is a small part of him that’s morbidly curious.

First, he texts Ben — who’s still his manager in this universe, thank god — about this impromptu cross-country trip. He says he’ll be unreachable for at least a week while he takes some time for himself on the east coast, hoping his excuse sounds legit enough. Next, he puts out a tweet saying effectively the same thing so his friends don’t think he’s vanished off the grid for no reason. That prompts a few texts from Bob, Wade, and Tyler — almost simultaneously — but Mark ignores them. He feels bad, but he doesn’t think he could keep up the alternate-Mark persona long enough to be convincing.

Mark almost wishes he did have the guts to talk to his friends, to tell them everything they’ve done with him where he’s from. But there would be no point.

Once Ben’s replied to his text and everyone else who needs to be notified of his absence has been contacted, Mark takes a deep breath and ventures into the scariest app on his phone: YouTube.

He saw his own channel when Amy showed it to him yesterday and feels no desire to explore that train wreck any further. But there’s another channel Mark knows he has to see: Ethan’s. It’ll be weird, he knows, but if anything, at least he’ll get to see his best friend’s face and hear his voice again. It’s been almost two full days since they’ve spoken — the longest they’ve gone in months — and _god,_ Mark is really starting to miss him. He doesn’t know if watching Ethan’s videos will help with that, but it’s worth a try. He’s got almost six hours to kill, after all.

Ignoring the unfairly small subscriber count under Ethan’s channel name, Mark scrolls through a couple of his recent videos. It looks like Ethan still has a fondness for ridiculous “simulator” games — Pigeon Simulator, Deer Simulator, and others — and there’s one or two from the last two weeks of him going through posts on his small subreddit. If it weren’t for his slightly paler skin, weaker shoulders, and less-styled hair, Mark might believe he hasn’t changed a bit.

Out of curiosity, Mark searches Ethan’s channel for “Peen.” It’s there, bold and glorious as ever, and something in Mark’s soul calms. If “Peen” still exists, even with only 60,000 views, the Ethan Mark knows still exists. Somehow, somewhere.

The first video Mark watches nearly makes him burst out crying, though not because of the content. He picks a random one from a couple months ago, and within seconds his heart is beating out of his chest, choking him. Hearing Ethan’s voice, seeing him laugh after everything that’s happened is a solid kick in the brain, and Mark has to pause for a minute to steady his breathing.

It’s obvious Ethan’s more tired in these videos than the ones Mark knows. He’s probably still working a nine-to-five in the morning, then filming and editing all night, like he had before he moved to L.A. Some of his laughs seem a little forced, but there’s still passion in his exhausted blue-green eyes. He loves what he’s doing; Mark can see that plainly, and it’s a comfort to know he didn’t give up without Mark’s guidance.

Mark looks down at the frame he’s paused on, forcing the hand holding his phone to stop shaking. Ethan’s in the middle of a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners, hand halfway to his mouth, and _god._ Mark misses him so fucking much. He remembers every time that giddy look had been directed at him, or offered in response to something he’d said, and he feels the loss all over again only twice as strong.

The amulet resting on Mark’s sternum beneath his hoodie mocks him. One of the red jasper stones has already turned a dark, ashy black, and he knows another one will follow suit by the end of this day. In some strange way, it reminds Mark of Unus Annus, and he lets out a quick, hoarse laugh.

Mark makes it through the video he’s watching and scrolls back up to the most recent ones, not sure if he feels better or worse yet. A couple catch his eye, but one posted last week is calling to him for some reason — it’s titled “Is YouTube dying??? READING YOUR COMMENTS #17.” The thumbnail isn’t anything special and the name is vaguely clickbait-y, but Mark taps on it nonetheless. Adjusting his AirPods a bit, he turns up the volume to hear Ethan’s voice over the grating snores of someone two rows behind him.

“What is up my Cranky Crew? It’s Ethan from CrankGameplays, and today I thought I’d do something a little more chill,” Ethan begins. Hearing that intro alone makes Mark’s heart yearn something awful, but seeing how tired and fake-happy Ethan looks hurts even more. He’s wearing a soft-looking yellow hoodie and his hair is tousled like he’s been running his hands through it anxiously. There’s pep in his voice, sure, but he still looks and sounds like he’s running on two hours of sleep and three cups of coffee.

The video’s only ten minutes long ( _Maximum ad revenue,_ Mark’s traitorous brain cackles) and some of the comments are run-of-the-mill, “what’s-your-favorite-drink-at-Starbucks”-type questions. There’s quite a few of them, though, so even though his fan base is smaller than Mark thinks it should be, at least there’s decent participation. There’s even a few commenters saying Ethan’s their favorite YouTuber, which warms Mark’s sore heart somewhat.

Mark’s zoning out towards the end of the video, lost in Ethan’s voice and the way his mouth moves as he speaks, when he hears the word “Markiplier.” He sits up straighter in his seat and scrambles to rewind, turning up the volume and bringing his phone screen closer to his face.

“CrankSamplays asks, ‘Ethan, do you think YouTube is dying? So many of the original creators are burning out and leaving — even Markiplier quit yesterday. I’ve watched him since 2013 and now he’s gone and I don’t know what to do. Why do you think there’s so much burnout among creators all of a sudden, and should we worry about you leaving, too?’”

Ethan takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his shaggy hair, looking up at the camera somewhat sadly. “That’s definitely a good question. You’re right, there really is a lot of burnout on YouTube these days,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “But no, I don’t think YouTube’s dying or anything like that. I don’t think people realize just how much work it is to, like maintain a channel and make good, worthwhile content in 2020, when there’s just so much fuckin’ stuff out there. I know it gets really hard for me to stay on top of it — this is technically my hobby, I guess you could say, but I put just as much time into it as I do with my full-time job. And it’s fucking exhausting, guys.” He laughs a bit, but Mark can see the truth of that statement in his eyes.

“And it is sad to see all the big YouTubers taking long breaks. But when you think about how long they’ve been at it, and how much work it takes to make what they make at, like, the _level_ they make it, I can totally understand. Especially with Markiplier.”

The sound of his name rolling off Ethan’s tongue li is what finally makes Mark tear up. He does his best to listen as Ethan continues: “I’ve watched Mark since I was sixteen, so about 2013, 2014. Watching his videos is what made me want to make my own. I remember being hunched over in bed at like two in the morning with the covers pulled over my head, watching him on my first laptop and having to cover my mouth so my parents couldn’t hear me laughing down the hall. I’ve been to two of his PAX East panels and I basically started on YouTube because of him, so yeah, Sam, I totally get where you’re coming from. I’m really gonna miss his stuff, too.”

Now Mark’s actively stifling sobs. It’s a cold relief and a burning ache to know Ethan still looks up to him in this universe. Mark wants to know why they didn’t meet if Ethan’s been to his panels before — was it too dense a crowd, or just plain social anxiety?

Then Ethan bites his lip and rubs the back of his neck, seemingly considering his next words more carefully, and Mark starts paying attention again. “Um. I know he probably doesn’t watch my shitty videos and doesn’t even know this channel exists, but … ”

_I do. I do know you exist, Ethan, I’ve known you for years, god, this hurts —_

“ … but, Mark, if by some fuckin’ miracle you’re watching this — ”

_I AM, I’m right here, I’m so fucking sorry I ever left —_

“ — I just wanna say, um. Thank you.” Ethan smiles sheepishly at the camera, and at the one person he never thought would see this message. Mark’s vision blurs through a fresh wave of tears. “You’ve always been the biggest inspiration for me when it comes to YouTube. I never would’ve discovered I loved doing this if it hadn’t been for you. I never would’ve felt as happy as I do when I’m recording a video or meeting my subscribers at PAX. CrankGameplays, this weird little thing I’ve made, wouldn’t exist without you, and … I’m gonna miss you. I really am. But I hope you feel better now that you have time to breathe and focus on yourself, and I hope you know there’s millions of people you’ve inspired who all support you. So … yeah. Thank you, Markiplier. Hey, everybody, give a nice big ‘thank you’ to Markiplier in the comments. He’ll _definitely_ see it here, after all.”

That’s all Mark can take.

He rips out his earbuds, scrambles past the other two people in his row of seats, and makes a beeline for the bathroom. It’s blessedly vacant, so he bolts inside. He’s barely able to lock the door before he’s sliding down the wall onto the floor and hugging his knees to his chest, sobbing softly as his heart breaks all over again.

 _I fucked up so bad,_ Mark thinks, the image of Ethan’s earnest smile and heartfelt gratitude burned into the backs of his eyelids. _I did this. He looked up to me and cared about me and I treated him like he was nothing. Jesus Christ, what kind of godawful monster am I?_

Knowing Ethan would still be a avid fan and follower of his even if they never met should be comforting to Mark, at least a little. But it’s not. Not really. All Mark can see when he looks at this version of Ethan is someone with so much potential burning inside them and no way to release it to its fullest. He should be doing charity streams that rake in hundreds of thousands of dollars. He should be on a stage doing improv with friends in front of thousands of fans. He should be on the creative team of big important projects, leaving an impact on YouTube that will never fade.

Instead, Ethan’s passionate but exhausted, working himself half to death at one job only to come home and keep working at another. His recording setup is professional but clearly on a budget — there’s no neon sign of his logo on the wall, no Sennheiser headphones, not even a decent ring light, from the looks of things. He could be doing so much more with his talents, _should_ be doing so much more, but he isn’t. Can’t.

Because no one ever saw what Mark saw in him and gave him the shot he deserved.

Mark’s three seconds away from throwing up in the little toilet to his left. It’s clearer now how important he and Ethan are to each other — not just as friends, but as co-creators. Without Ethan, Mark’s lost his drive and creative spark, and his channel has completely fizzled out from lack of inspiration. And without Mark, Ethan is still putting out great stuff, but not to the level he could be or the audience he should be. Despite all the challenges facing him, Ethan still seems to love what he’s doing, but if he knew how much potential he had …

It’s too much to take in. Mark cries for a few long, miserable minutes before finally pulling himself up off the cold floor. Avoiding the sight of his reflection in the mirror over the sink, he splashes his tear-streaked face with some cold water and hopes he doesn’t look too much like a guy who’s just bawled his eyes out in an airplane bathroom.

Digging the heels of his hands into his puffy eyes for a second, Mark takes a few deep, shaky breaths before exiting the small room as casually as possible. He returns to his seat and immediately puts his headphones back in, curling towards the window and watching the clouds pass under the wing of the plane. Everything in his head feels scrambled and raw, but the clouds soothe him somewhat.

After that, Mark drifts in and out of light naps. He’s woken up when the food cart rolls around and munches slowly on a stale banana nut muffin as his Spotify songs shuffle in his ears. Despite not being one to listen to music casually, he needs to fill his head with something other than the borderline panicked thoughts he’s been fighting since yesterday.

There isn’t much in his library he hasn’t heard before, and the playlist for Amy is nearly identical to the one he’d made in his own timeline. However, the secret one simply labeled “eef” is gone. Mark bites his lip and searches for a few of the songs he remembers adding to it.

Naturally, it’s a fucking Ed Sheeran song that hits him the hardest.

_“And your heart's against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck / I'm falling for your eyes, but they don't know me yet / And with a feeling I'll forget, I'm in love now ... ”_

Before he adds to his already profound “I’ve-cried-too-much-recently” headache, Mark skips to a more mindless Here Come the Mummies song and takes a few deep breaths. He _has_ to get a handle on his seemingly chaotic emotions before he lands in Maine, or this whole endeavor is going up in flames. Ethan’s already going to be shocked to see Markiplier at his front door — an unstable, openly weeping Markiplier would only make the situation weirder.

Fuck. Somehow Mark keeps forgetting he’s probably going to come face-to-face with this timeline’s Ethan before this day is over. He hasn’t even considered what he’s going to say when confronted with the inevitable question, “What the fuck are you doing here?” Mark knows the objective of meeting Ethan is to (somehow) woo him, but he can’t tell Ethan that right off the bat. Having your idol open his first conversation with you with, “I’m from an alternate universe where we’re best friends and we’ve worked together for years and also I’m kind of in love with you” is the definition of mental whiplash. Mark will probably have to tell Ethan all that at some point, but he has to come up with a story for the first day or two. That is, of course, assuming Ethan even lets him stick around.

Who’s he kidding? Ethan will listen to him. Mark’s his hero — even the washed up, burned out version of him is someone inspiring, in Ethan’s eyes.

And just like that, Mark has an idea.

* * *

Landing in Portland makes everything feel all the more real and, in turn, terrifying. The moment Mark climbs into his rented Nissan Sentra, the completely insane situation he’s in re-solidifies itself in his mind. He’s just flown across the country to meet a version of his best friend who’s never met him before with the purpose of making him fall in love.

This is crazy.

It’s just past four p.m. local time, which means Ethan is probably still at work. Mark doesn’t want to lug around his suitcase all day, either, so he drives to the nearby Doubletree he’s booked a room at and checks in. It’s nothing terribly fancy — just a single room with oddly patterned gray-and-yellow carpet, heavy brown curtains, and pristine white sheets draped over the queen bed. It has that sharp, freshly-cleaned smell hotel rooms like this usually have, and the firm mattress is a welcome comfort when Mark flops onto it face-first. He buries his face in a plush, starchy pillow and just lies there for a few minutes, letting himself rest after barely sleeping last night and napping awfully on the plane.

The longer he lies there, the more tired he gets. With the last of his brainpower, Mark pulls out his phone, sets an alarm for 5:30, and takes his glasses off. There’s nothing else he needs to do until Ethan gets off work, presumably around five or six, so Mark places his glasses on the beside table and grabs this chance to sleep with both hands.

And he dreams.

* * *

_First, Mark finds himself at PAX East in Boston. Based on what people are wearing — and the giant flashing sign above the entrance to the convention center — it’s 2014, and he’s outside meeting with fans. A few of them ask for autographs or hugs, a few give him little gifts, and nearly every one asks for a photo or a quick shot for a vlog. Mark says yes to them all, of course. He can hardly believe people came from around the country just to see him. It’s only been a couple years, but it looks like this YouTube thing he’s found himself neck-deep in could really work out._

_After saying goodbye to a giddy girl wearing a Tiny Box Tim shirt, Mark looks up to take a breath. As awesome as this is, it’s also thoroughly exhausting. Curious, he casts a cursory glance around the parking lot to see if Jack — Sean, he corrects himself in his head — is milling around anywhere. And for some reason, he locks eyes with another fan._

_This one can’t be older than 16 or 17. He’s wearing tan pants with a black graphic tee declaring something about meat; Mark can’t quite read it from this distance. When the teen realizes he’s been noticed, he beams and brushes a lock of brown hair off his forehead with one hand. Adjusting his grip on his vlog camera, he waves nervously with the other. Mark grins and raises a hand to wave back —_

_— only for his line of sight to be interrupted by the arrival of Sean. “Hey, man, you doin’ alright?” the Irishman asks, gripping Mark’s shoulder. They only met in real life for the first time yesterday, but something about Sean’s need to touch and hang around Mark constantly is … somewhat grating on Mark’s patience. There’s other people he’d like to see and hang out with while he’s here, but. He’d also really wanted to spend time with Sean in person, so it’s not all bad, he supposes._

_“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Mark reassures his new friend, patting his forearm gently. “Just saying hi to some fans.” He glances over Sean’s shoulder to look for the fan in the black shirt, but the crowd seems to have swept him away. Some unknown force twinges in his chest, but it’s gone as quickly as it arrives._

_“Cool. D’you wanna maybe head back to the hotel, then? All this chattering is giving me a bit of a headache.”_

_Mark considers for a moment, looking around the crowd one last time. No one else seems to be elbowing their way over towards him, so he figures he’s met everyone who’d wanted to meet him._

_Well. Almost everyone._

_“Yeah, sure thing,” he says, turning and walking back towards the convention center. Their rentals are parked in a smaller private lot on the other side of the building. “So, how’d you enjoy your first convention?”_

_Even as he makes small talk with an enthusiastic Sean, Mark can’t shake the feeling that as he’s walking away from the horde of fans, he’s forgetting something._

_Then everything goes white._

_Mark blinks, and suddenly he’s up on a stage with Bob and Wade. He recognizes this room — it’s his PAX East 2015 panel in the Albatross Theatre, and the crowd is dying with laughter following some dumb joke he’s just made. Wade chimes in with a droll one-liner and the laughter continues, Bob leaning back in his chair and clapping with mirth. Mark’s heart soars as he looks out at the room full of adults and kids alike, all there to see him — it’s still so surreal to him that anyone would sit through an hour of his unedited bullshit._

_As he casts his gaze around the room, Mark pauses when he sees a vaguely familiar face towards the middle. It’s a teenager in a red hoodie, biting his lip and waving his hand urgently. It’s Bob’s turn to venture out into the audience to grab a question, though, so while Wade is answering a question someone’s just asked him, Mark shuffles over to Bob and points out the kid. Bob nods and gets up, making his way offstage and down the center aisle._

_When he’s a few rows away, though, someone else grabs Bob’s arm and says something urgently to him. Mark watches as Bob looks up at the hopeful teen about ten feet from him and holds up a hand as if to say, “I see you, we’ll get to you after this one.” With that, he steps back and gestures for the man who’d stopped him to follow him to the stage. He does, with a blonde woman in tow — girlfriend, probably._

_The couple ends up getting engaged onstage, in an echo of what had happened at Mark’s panel the year before. He, Bob, and Wade cheer along with the audience as the two share a gleeful kiss and embrace._

_Just then, Mark notices the timekeeper sitting in the front row is signaling they only have a minute left to end the panel. “Alright, everyone, it looks like we’re out of time, unfortunately,” he says into his mic. “I know a lot of people had questions and I wish we could get to everyone, but we gotta get out of here now. We’re being kicked off, booted, shunned!”_

_Bob and Wade say some closing remarks, thank everyone for coming, and thank Mark for inviting them to this panel. Mark says his thank-yous, encourages everyone to come up and say hi if they see him or any of his friends throughout the weekend, and leaves it there._

_As the crowd starts to file out of the theatre, Mark heads backstage with Bob and Wade and remembers that fan who’d been upstaged by the newly-engaged couple snagging Bob in the aisle. He’d looked familiar, somehow, and the dejected look on his face when Bob had turned away from him made Mark’s heart hurt a little. He doesn’t know why — hundreds of fans got overlooked; as much as Mark hates it, that’s just how these panels work. So why does he feel so guilty for forgetting about one boy?_

_Oh well. Hopefully, if the kid really wants to talk to him, he’ll stick around for the weekend and seek Mark out somewhere else._

_If they’re meant to meet, Mark reasons, they will._

* * *

Mark startles awake with a gasp. The bedside clock reads 5:46 p.m., which means he’s slept through his alarm. Unusual. He also doesn’t feel rested in the least.

Rubbing his eyes, Mark sits up and tries to remember the dream — dreams? — he’s just had. They weren’t anything like Mark’s typical dreams, which tend to fall more into the “nightmare” category — in fact, they almost felt _too_ real. Like …

… Like they were memories.

Mark nearly chokes on his own tongue. With shaking fingers, he grabs the silver chain around his neck and pulls the amulet out from where he’s tucked it beneath his shirt. Sure enough, another one of the smaller stones has started to darken. By the end of the night, it’ll be as black as the one next to it, and Mark will only have eight days to win Ethan over. Eight days before every memory Mark has of his time with Ethan is lost, and he reverts to directionless, passionless Mark. For good.

The more Mark thinks about that fate, the more he feels like he’d rather die than let that happen.

Shaking off the residual horror from the dream, Mark drags himself off the bed and shuffles to the en-suite. The sight that greets him in the mirror is … jarring, to say the least. His hair’s a mess, his eyes are puffy, and his beard has gone from “deliberate stubble” to “I-just-haven’t-felt-like-shaving-for-four-days.” Sighing, he runs a hand down his splotchy face before walking back over to the bed and hoisting his suitcase onto it.

After trimming his stubble, brushing his teeth, washing his face, and changing his shirt, Mark looks and feels a little more human. He puts his glasses back on and stares at his reflection for a few more seconds — if it weren’t for the surgical scars on his torso and the beauty marks on his chin, he’d barely recognize this body as his own. He doesn’t have time to dwell on that right now, though, since it’s already six p.m. and Ethan is most likely done with work.

“You can do this,” Mark tells himself, staring determinedly into his own tired eyes. “You _have_ to do this. You got yourself into this shit and now you’ve gotta pull yourself out of it.”

It’s the best pep talk he can manage on practically no food or sleep, but it’s enough to get him outside to his rental car. The most recent address he’d been able to find for Ethan on Whitepages.com is an apartment building about 15 minutes from this hotel, in a neighborhood across the river called Oakdale. Mark punches it into the car’s onboard GPS and grips the steering wheel tight, taking a deep, unsteady breath. He knows he has to do this, but god, it could end up going so horribly wrong. What if Ethan has a roommate who slams the door in Mark’s face? What if he has a girlfriend over? Hell, what if he has a _boyfriend_ over?

The amulet tucked in Mark’s jacket pocket suddenly feels heavier, and it snaps Mark out of his panicked mental ramblings. He _has_ to do this, has to at least try to make things right, or he’ll …

Not allowing himself to finish that thought, Mark starts the car and pulls out of the hotel parking lot.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN for all the comments/kudos so far!! it really makes it feel like these past 8 months of work were worth it :D
> 
> stay tuned for chapter 3 tomorrow!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here’s chapter three!! a couple hours early since chapter two was a little late. thank you all again so freakin much for all the love you’ve shown this fic so far!! i hope you like this chapter — i really loved writing this reunion scene, as heart wrenching as it is. at least from mark’s perspective. i really tried to make it as real as i could?? but i know it’s still a little idealistic probably. 
> 
> couple liberties i took: i honestly know nothing about recording setups apart from the cameras, so anything i write about gaming PCs and whatnot is based on semi-cursory google research. just putting that out there now!! also, i have no idea what kind of apartment buildings are in Maine — i just tried to give ethan one that was mid-range and affordable for a smaller-youtuber-who’s-also-a-restaurant-manager.
> 
> alright, without further ado: chapter three!! hope you enjoy :)

There’s times when the few seconds between knocking on a door and watching that door open can feel like eons. Mark is in that strange temporal place now, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits for a response to the buzz he’s just sent up to the apartment labeled “3A: NESTOR” on the mailboxes. This is a nice building, made of red brick with dark green ivy creeping up one side. There appear to be four floors housing eight apartments, and the top two even have small balconies. It’s easy to see why Ethan needs to hold down a “real” job on top of YouTube to afford this place; while it isn’t the pinnacle of luxury upon first glance, Mark can guess rent is easily at least —

“Hello?”

The crackly voice coming through the beige speaker by the buzzer is unmistakable. Mark’s stomach gives a painful lurch. Swallowing hard, he licks his lips and presses the “TALK” button. “H-Hi, is this, um, Ethan Nestor?”

A pause. “Yeah … Who is this?”

“Um.” _Remember your cover story. Remember the plan, idiot._ “M-My name’s Mark. You, uh, might know me from YouTube?”

There’s a longer pause this time. Mark’s heart feels like it’s going to either burst out of his chest _Alien_ -style or crawl painfully slowly up his throat and out one of his ears.

Finally, the voice in the speaker says articulately, “No fucking way.”

Then, nothing. Mark bites his lip and presses the “TALK” button again after about fifteen seconds of silence. “Hello?”

_He’s freaking out, calling the cops, telling his girlfriend to go hide in the closet or grab a camera or something, you should’ve known this would happen, why would he want to talk to —_

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs inside the building is drowning out Mark’s anxious inner monologue. The staircase isn’t super well-lit, so all Mark can see is the silhouette of a semi-lanky dude practically jumping down the final few steps as he approaches.

Then he steps beneath the single bulb in the first floor atrium, and all the air rushes out of Mark’s lungs.

It’s Ethan. It’s a thinner, more exhausted, longer-haired version of Ethan, but it’s definitely Ethan. He’s dressed in black skinny jeans, a yellow t-shirt that almost hangs off his slight frame, and threadbare black socks. The uneven slope of his narrow shoulders reveals how long he’s been awake today, but his eyes are wide and alert behind his thick-framed glasses as they stare at Mark through the glass door.

Mark isn’t sure his own expression looks much different, even though he’s trying to keep it neutral. It’s hard, though, to look into the eyes of the person you’re in love with when they don’t even know who you are. Sure, Ethan knows Mark’s public persona in this timeline, but as far as Mark’s concerned, he’s as good as a complete stranger to the younger man.

 _It’s me,_ Mark’s aching, fluttering heart calls out silently. _It’s me, I found you, I’ll always find you no matter what. Don’t you recognize me?_

They stare at each other in silence for a few long seconds, Ethan stunned, Mark patient and attempting to seem amused. Finally, Ethan mouths the words “holy shit” and reaches out to open the door.

“M-Mark Fischbach?” Ethan’s voice is high-pitched and awed. His arm shakes as he holds the door for Mark to enter. _“Markiplier?_ I — how — ?”

Mark can’t help but think how familiar that starstruck smile on Ethan’s flushed face is. He remembers seeing that same smile the morning he’d picked Ethan up from LAX on his first day in California. Pushing down those feelings of nostalgia and fondness, Mark grins like he would for any other fan and holds out a hand a little awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, ignoring the bitter taste of those words in his mouth.

“Yeah, oh my god!” Ethan shakes Mark’s hand with an almost too-tight grip, and Mark’s skin hums. “I-I’m Ethan! You … w-what the fuck are you doing here?”

The handshake ends after a few seconds and Mark bites his lip. Forcing himself to maintain eye contact, he shrugs one shoulder and clenches his fist against his leg before replying, “I, uh. I saw your most recent ‘Reading Your Comments’ video and — ”

 _“You watch my videos?!”_ Ethan’s expression is that of someone who’s just won a small lottery. He beams and yanks on his own hair, looking equal parts amazed and nauseous. “Holy shit, holy fucking _shit,_ um, wow! That’s incredible, _you’re_ incredible, oh my god, hold on — ”

Ethan stumbles backwards towards the stairs until he can sit down on one with a heavy _thump._ His chest is heaving and his eyes are wild and Mark knows the signs of an impending Nestor panic attack when he sees them. “Hey,” he says, rushing over and kneeling down in front of Ethan — not too close to seem overly friendly, but close enough that he can reach out to comfort if need be. “Hey, man, take it easy, it’s okay.”

“Sorry,” Ethan says, glancing up to meet Mark’s eyes briefly before looking back down at his knees. “God, I-I’m so sorry, I know you hate when fans react like this, this must be so weird for you … ”

 _You don’t know the half of it, bud._ “It’s okay, I promise,” Mark assures in a calming voice, resisting the growing urge to pull Ethan into a tight hug and never let go again. “I know this is probably weird for you, too, me showing up at your place like this with no warning.”

“I-I mean, kinda?” Ethan slowly gathers the courage to look Mark in the eyes again. He smiles, small and nervous and utterly befuddled, and the shitty lighting turns his eyes a dark green. “How’d you even find my address?”

“Whitepages,” Mark replies, forcing himself to stay at arm’s length. All he wants is to gather Ethan in his arms, kiss every inch of his perfect face, and promise never to leave him again. Doing that here would probably result in a fist to the face, though. “It wasn’t even behind a paywall. Might wanna look into that. At first I was just gonna send you something in the mail or reach out on Twitter, but I figured … I don’t think I have many fans like you left, so. I wanted to meet you.”

Mark’s trying his best to make this cover story sound as convincing as possible. Judging from the way Ethan hugs his knees to his chest and downright _blushes_ at Mark’s manufactured tale, it’s working for now. “That’s not true,” Ethan murmurs, smile turning bashful. “You’ve got tons of fans still. Eighteen million people haven’t all stopped liking you at once.”

“Yeah, well. Feels like they have.” This is the closest Mark will let himself get to slipping into the mindset he believes this timeline’s Mark has. He sighs and sits down on the floor, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. “I know I haven’t exactly been the best role model lately. What you said in your video, how you thanked me for inspiring you … that really meant a lot to me.”

“I meant it,” Ethan says, taking on the role of comforter for a moment. Mark can’t make himself meet Ethan’s eyes. “You’ve inspired millions of people, Mark, not just me.”

Then Ethan laughs like something’s just occurred to him. “This is a really weird place to be having this conversation,” he says, and Mark watches as the younger man pushes himself to his feet. “D’you wanna come up to my apartment? Or, like, grab some food somewhere?”

Mark, who’s spent too much time in planes and cars today already, shakes his head. “Here is fine,” he says, flashing as charming a grin as he can. “I’m curious to see your recording setup. Might be able to give you some tips, if you want ‘em.”

Ethan’s answering smile is brighter than anything Mark’s seen in the last two days. “Sure!” He starts heading up the stairs with an enthusiasm Mark has missed with every cell in his body. “God, this is so fucking unreal; I can’t believe this is actually happening!”

“Me neither,” Mark mutters under his breath as he pushes himself to his feet with a soft grunt. As soon as he’s upright, all the blood in his head rushes to his feet and he sways dangerously where he stands. “Fuck … ”

“ — literally, like, kind of a dream come — oh, shit.” Suddenly Ethan’s at Mark’s side again, hesitantly reaching out to touch his arm. “You okay?”

Mark leans heavily on the banister beside him to avoid leaning into Ethan. Ignoring the searing heat where Ethan’s hand is wrapped around his forearm, he nods and blinks the spots out of his blurry vision. “‘M fine,” he says, meeting Ethan’s concerned gaze even as his head throbs. “Just … not running on a whole lot of sleep. Or food.”

“Oh.” Ethan chews his bottom lip in thought for a moment. After a brief hesitation, he carefully links his arm with Mark’s, gripping his bicep supportively. “I just started making myself dinner,” he says, and there’s something like hope in his eyes. “You should eat something. Y-You like mac and cheese?”

Mark can’t suppress the adoring smile that breaks over his face at that. _Some things never change._ “Love it,” he says, soft and fond.

Ethan smile turns from hopeful to borderline giddy. “Right this way, Mr. Iplier,” he says, giggling when Mark jostles him good-naturedly.

With a steady arm, Ethan helps Mark up the five flights of stairs to his apartment. Almost every step creaks, and the building smells a little musty, like the carpet hasn’t been cleaned since the last time it rained. Images of other-Ethan’s sizable townhouse in L.A. flash through Mark’s mind, and he feels a fresh pang of guilt. It’s _his_ fault Ethan’s living in a 60-year-old building that probably doesn’t even have adequate heating or A/C. In fact, the stairwell is freezing — it’s a good thing winter’s been milder than usual in Maine so far. If he finds out Ethan’s apartment gets bitter cold at night, Mark’s gonna go to the first Target he can find and buy some blankets.

They reach Ethan’s apartment slowly but steadily, Mark’s vision still going in and out of focus from the head rush. It’s a modest city apartment with hardwood floors and a living room that blends into a kitchenette. Ethan hangs up Mark’s jacket by the door and gets Mark situated on the worn gray couch, all the while muttering, “Markiplier is in my _house_ holy _shit_ oh my _god —”_ and the like. If it were anyone else, Mark would tell him to tone the hero-worship down a bit.

Ethan also apologizes profusely for the “mess,” which is a few unwashed dishes on the kitchen counter and an overflowing recycling bin by the fridge. The rest of the place is fairly tidy, which surprises Mark.

Then again, Ethan does get on Mark’s case for leaving old McDonald’s bags and boxes all over the place.

“I just got home from work like an hour ago, and I really wasn’t expecting anybody,” Ethan rambles, shoving dishes into the dishwasher with comedic urgency.

“It’s really fine,” Mark says, still looking around. There’s a decent-sized flatscreen TV mounted on the wall in front of the couch, and a short wooden bookcase full of games for several consoles. The bay window on the west wall provides a great view of the street below and the late-sunset purple sky. On the white walls are several framed movie posters, familiar enough to make Mark swallow a lump in his throat. The space isn’t huge by any means, but it’s cozy and bursting with Ethan-ness, which means Mark feels at home already.

There are also three doors leading to different rooms, and Mark works to quickly identify them: One is obviously the bathroom, seeing as there’s a blue bath towel peeking out from the edge of the doorway. The other two seem to be bedrooms. Biting his lip, Mark asks, “Do you have a roommate?”

“Huh?” Ethan looks over his shoulder once he’s lit the burner on the stove. He places a pot of water over the flame and lightly salts it. “Oh, no, I don’t. This place has two bedrooms, but I use one as my recording space.”

“Ah.” Mark sits back on the couch, somewhat relieved. He’s pretty sure he’ll only be able accomplish his goal if he and Ethan spend most of their time together alone. “Well, that’s handy.”

“Yeah, it actually worked out great!” Ethan keeps puttering around the kitchen, setting a pair of bowls on the folding table beside the couch. “I make just enough from YouTube and my restaurant job to pay the rent myself. Unfortunately, that means a lot of Ramen and Kraft mac and cheese.”

There’s that guilt again, by now a familiar presence in Mark’s chest. He immediately employs his go-to coping method: humor. “Bold of you to assume that’s not what I live off of,” he jokes, hoping the light-hearted tone of his voice doesn’t sound too forced.

“You mean you _don’t_ dine on caviar and lobster every night?” Ethan retorts easily with a light chuckle in his voice.

“Hey, _you’re_ the Mainer here. If anyone should be gorging themselves on lobster tails, it’s you.”

“Just because it’s cheaper here than anywhere else doesn’t mean I can afford to indulge every night like royalty, mister.”

“Oh, sure, sure. So you’re telling me I _wouldn’t_ find at least _some_ lobster in your freezer if I looked right now?”

“ … I plead the fifth.”

It’s smooth and effortless and achingly comfortable to banter like this with Ethan. For just a moment, it feels normal, and Mark almost believes he’s woken up from the nightmare he plunged himself into.

But everything’s _not_ normal. Mark is just a stranger Ethan’s graciously invited into his home. He can’t hurl good-natured insults or bring up inside jokes. He isn’t allowed to call Ethan names or squeeze his shoulder affectionately or wrap an arm around him or —

 _Fuck._ For some reason, Mark hadn’t counted on the longing being just as strong in this universe as it had been in the other one.

 _But hey, look how far you’ve gotten in ten minutes,_ Mark tells himself as he scrolls blindly through his Twitter feed while watching Ethan in his periphery. _You’re in his apartment, on his couch, and he’s making you dinner. At this rate, you’ll have him wrapped around your finger by tomorrow._

Something about that thought makes Mark grimace. Even though he’s fully aware of his end goal, he’s hesitant to focus too hard on it at the risk of reducing Ethan to a conquest. Ethan’s an idiot, sure, but he’s not stupid — he’d be able to tell if someone was trying to befriend him just to get in his pants.

Not that Mark wants to get in this Ethan’s pants.

Not that Mark thinks he’s _going_ to get in this Ethan’s pants.

Not that Mark’s even _thought_ about it until this minute.

_Goddammit._

Somehow, Mark’s gotta find a way to make Ethan fall for him without fucking him. The fan-and-idol power imbalance between them in this timeline, teamed with the fact that Mark knows almost everything about Ethan while Ethan probably doesn’t even know Mark’s middle name, makes sex a really, _really_ awful idea. Kissing might not be entirely off the table, but anything more than that …

Jesus Christ, Mark’s getting ahead of himself. He’s never even kissed _his_ Ethan before; he’s gotta pace himself carefully and deliberately or he’ll scare _this_ Ethan off.

As if he can sense the conundrum tying Mark’s brain and stomach into knots, Ethan suddenly plops down on the couch beside him. He’s close enough to seem friendly, but their shoulders aren’t even brushing — Mark’s used to having to shove him away just to get a couple inches of breathing space. Now, he kind of wants to tell Ethan he can sit closer.

“You sure you’re feeling alright?” Ethan asks, concern turning his eyes a deep blue-green. There’s two light sources in this living room — the ceiling light and the IKEA floor lamp in the far corner — and they cast soft shadows on his face as he ducks a bit to meet Mark’s eyes. “D’you want some water, maybe? I’ve also got orange juice, and milk.”

Mark studies Ethan’s face and thinks for a second. He wants to try something, throw a little test Ethan’s way and see how he does. Quirking an eyebrow, Mark asks, “Got any beer?”

Sure enough, Ethan looks confused. “I mean, yeah,” he says, frowning a bit, “but I … thought you couldn’t drink?”

 _Okay, so he_ does _know some stuff about me. Maybe I didn’t give his fanboy side enough credit._ Mark shakes off the relief he feels and masks it with a laugh. “You’re right, I can’t,” he chuckles. “Sorry, I like to joke about it sometimes. Water would be fine, but I can get it.”

“Hey hey hey, wait a second.” Ethan stops Mark from standing with a hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him back down to the couch. “You almost passed out on the stairs. I’m, like, doing my best to play it cool in front of you right now, but if you lost consciousness I think I might lose my mind completely. So just stay here and I’ll be right back — I think the macaroni’s almost done cooking.”

With that, Ethan gets up from the couch and pads back over to the stove. The spot where he’d touched Mark’s shoulder is still warm, like an invisible brand. Mark resists the urge to lay his own hand over it, if only to make the warmth linger.

Five minutes later, Ethan returns to Mark’s side with a glass of water and a bowl of mac and cheese. “Bon appetit,” he says in a goofy pseudo-French accent, and Mark can’t help but snicker.

“Mmm, _hon hon hon, le macaroni du fromage,”_ Mark replies in his own “French” voice as he accepts the bowl. The bright sound of Ethan’s subsequent surprised laughter is one of the best things Mark’s ever heard.

 _We already get along great,_ he thinks as he starts to scarf down the hot food. And it’s true — even though Ethan’s still clearly a little nervous, the way he plays off Mark’s random comedic outbursts is natural and seemingly effortless. Yeah, he’s not quite as energetic as Mark’s used to, but behind the world-weary gaze and the stress-tense shoulders, Ethan’s still Ethan. He’s still chaotic and hilarious and the natural yang to Mark’s yin, and that gives Mark more hope than he thought he’d feel so early in this journey.

They don’t talk much while they eat, both of them too hungry to pause long enough. Even though he knows it’s just boxed mac and cheese, Mark can’t remember it ever tasting this good. He wolfs down the whole bowl in three minutes, washing it down with a few slugs of cold tap water, and is both surprised and amused to find Ethan almost finished too. “God, it’s like we haven’t eaten in days,” Mark comments, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“I know, right?” Ethan smiles as he takes a sip of the milk he’d poured for himself. “Well, come to think of it, I’m actually not sure if I remembered to eat today.”

 _Yep. Same old Ethan._ “Dude, that’s not good,” Mark says softly, holding back from giving this Ethan the same speech he’s practically _shouted_ in his Ethan’s ear countless times before. “I mean, I do the same thing sometimes — my ADHD meds fuck with my appetite — but you gotta eat enough.”

Ethan sighs and nods, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. He quirks a devastatingly cute half-smile and looks up at Mark through his lashes, almost coy. “That’s the YouTuber lifestyle, though, isn’t it? So busy with the cycle of record-edit-upload that you forget to step back and remember you’re a human.”

Mark … can’t really deny that, so he just finishes off his glass of water and lets Ethan take the dirty dishes to the kitchen.

“So,” Ethan asks as he rinses out the bowls, “did you really fly all the way across the country to meet me because of what I said in that video?”

“I mean, yeah.” Mark can only pray he sounds convincing enough. “You said I inspire you, and I can tell. Your videos remind me of what I used to make, back when I was … well. Better than what I am now.”

“Shut up, dude.” Ethan sets the dishes in the sink and walks back over. “You’re always gonna be Markiplier, no matter what you’re making or how good or bad it is.” He sits back down facing Mark, with one arm propped up on the back of the couch and his legs crossed in front of him. There’s a fond little smile on his face and a soft look in his oceanic eyes that makes him look too much like the Ethan Mark remembers. “I mean, the fact that you traveled thousands of miles to surprise a fan — that alone proves you’re not just another washed-up YouTuber.”

 _But I’m not here just out of the goodness of my heart, though,_ Mark’s traitorous thoughts remind him. He looks away from Ethan’s borderline adoring gaze and sighs, running a hand through his annoyingly long hair. _I should get a haircut tomorrow._ “How d’you know I’m not here to, like, kidnap you or steal all your trade secrets?”

“‘Cuz something tells me you wouldn’t be able to pull that off if you tried.”

“You’re awfully critical of my kidnapping abilities for someone who’s just met me.”

“You’re awfully _confident_ in your kidnapping abilities for someone who’s just met your potential target.”

This _shouldn’t_ be working already. Ethan shouldn’t appear so comfortable around Mark after spending less than two hours with him — he’s the most anxious person Mark’s ever known. Sure, he still seems a bit giddy and twitchy, but he’s practically _lounging_ on this couch beside Mark like they’ve been friends for years. Mark’s having to consciously bite back every inside joke that pops in his head because for brief moments, he could almost believe everything’s normal again.

But it’s not. They’re not in Mark’s living room winding down from five hours of filming. They’re in a typical apartment building in Portland, Maine, practically strangers again, and all Mark wants to do is tell Ethan _everything._

He can’t, though. Not yet.

So he turns the conversation to a safer topic. Doing his best to sound like the overconfident King of the Internet people believe he believes he is, Mark asks, “Y’know, you still haven’t shown me your sweet recording setup.”

And just like that, Ethan’s laid-back façade falls away to reveal the ever-present ball of nerves underneath. “Oh!” He sits up straighter on the couch and wrings his hands together for a couple seconds before standing, clearly uncertain. “Um, it’s in the second bedroom,” he says, meeting Mark’s eyes for a moment before immediately looking back down at his socked feet again. “Y-You really wanna see it?”

“Duh,” Mark replies articulately. When he stands, he’s pleased to find his head no longer feels ten pounds lighter than the rest of his body. “Lead the way, Mr. Gameplays.”

Ethan beams and laughs a little. _He’s so fucking cute._ “Alright,” he says, padding over to the closed door across from the couch with Mark in tow. “I, um, should warn you — my cable management is shit, so watch where you step or you’ll trip. I’ve almost cracked my head open on the edge of my desk more times than I can count.”

“Duly noted.” Mark fidgets with his own fingers behind his back. To his own surprise, he’s genuinely curious about how and where Ethan works in this timeline. It can’t be _that_ much different, despite the smaller budget. If there’s one thing that’s a constant in every timeline, it’s Ethan being irritatingly particular about his work space.

“Markiplier’s in my fucking recording room,” Ethan mutters as he opens the door and flicks on the light. “I gotta be dreaming.”

Mark doesn’t respond. He’s too busy taking in the room around him. Despite what he’d assumed from the handful of Ethan’s videos he’d watched on the plane, Mark is pleasantly surprised to see some decently high-end equipment spread throughout the room. The walls are padded with dark blue soundproofing foam; the ring lights and soft boxes Ethan’s acquired are industry standard; the desk against the far wall has a hefty computer tower and two monitors on it, and there’s even a pretty decent Canon EOS DSLR on a tripod facing the desk. Ethan _does_ have a neon sign of his logo hanging on the wall opposite the door, right above his Silver Play Button plaque.

Complete with a couch, a 40-inch wall-mounted TV, and another bookshelf stocked with video games, this room is professional and well-equipped for the kind of content Ethan’s currently putting out. Mark feels bad for being so surprised — _Not everything fancy and expensive and_ good _came into his life because of_ you, _idiot_ — but he is. If anything, this setup proves just how hard Ethan is working. That computer with those monitors costs a few grand on its own, never mind the camera and the lights.

Cutting through the surprise, pride at how far Ethan’s come on his own glows deep in Mark’s chest. It’s so fucking unfair that more people aren’t consuming the heartfelt, lovingly-crafted content the younger man is making.

Mark hasn’t even heard Ethan’s anxious rambling yet, too consumed in looking around and being impressed. He tunes back in just as Ethan’s apologizing for the viper’s pit of cables surrounding his desk: “ — tried so many different things, I even fucking color coded them once but I kept forgetting which colors went where, so I just took the tape off and left them how they were and they kind of turned into a — ”

“Dude, breathe.” Mark walks over to where Ethan’s straightening up the random pens and papers on his desk and rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him a bit. “This place is great, man. I honestly didn’t expect you to have so much cool stuff, but you do. A few tweaks here and there, some updated tech, and you could have a better setup than me.”

Ethan’s eyes are wide and disbelieving when they meet Mark’s. His expression is a combination of denial, wonder, and sheer amazement. “You’re totally just saying that to make me feel good about myself, aren’t you?”

“No — well, partially, but also because it’s the truth.” Biting his lip, Mark lets go of Ethan’s shoulder and looks around again. “It’s really nice, Ethan. You … You’re doing a really great job.”

He wants so badly to say _I’m proud of you,_ but he’s not sure how that would go over. The bashful smile and faint blush Ethan breaks into just from being told “good job” is enough for Mark anyway.

Oddly enough, Mark’s eyes are quickly drawn again to the Silver Play Button plaque hanging on the far wall. He wanders over to take a closer look — it’s one of the newer ones, not a trinket in a shadow box, and it’s nice. “Presented to CrankGameplays for passing 100,000 subscribers” is embossed into the brushed metal in white lettering; Mark can’t resist reaching out to skim his fingertips lightly over it.

“One of the best days of my life was getting that in the mail,” Ethan says, suddenly right beside Mark. The older man snatches his hand away from the plaque, not sure if he’s allowed to touch, but Ethan doesn’t comment. “I hit a hundred thousand a year ago next month — March 4 — and it’s still a bit surreal to think about sometimes.”

Ethan’s expression turns sheepish when Mark looks at him. “I know it’s probably not that impressive to someone with a _Diamond_ Play Button, but. It kind of means everything to me.”

 _It should be gold,_ Mark thinks, doing his best to hide the despair he suddenly feels. _You deserve this and so much more and you don’t even know it._ “It’s amazing,” he says softly, unable to look away from Ethan’s face. “You worked your ass off for this, and you fucking earned it. Hell, I’m surprised you haven’t kicked me out yet to get some recording done.”

Ethan chuckles at that. “Not gonna lie, I did have stuff I wanted to record tonight,” he says. “But then fucking _Markiplier_ showed up at my door, so. I … honestly don’t think I have the brainpower to be on camera right now.”

Mark finally lets himself smile at that. “Sorry for screwing up your schedule,” he says, and it’s genuine. “I remember you saying in one of your videos that you’re kind of always on the clock. You work at a restaurant, right?”

“Yep. I’m running on four hours of sleep right now, actually.” Ethan pauses, then covers his grinning face with his hands. “Ugh, _god,_ I still can’t believe you’ve seen my videos. This is so fucking surreal, you have no idea.”

“Oddly enough, I kind of do,” Mark replies, but he doesn’t elaborate. He rests a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and squeezes gently, leaning down to try and catch a glimpse of Ethan’s eyes. “Your videos are good, man. You’re funny and quick and likable; you’ve got more potential than almost any other creator I’ve come across in the gaming sector of YouTube. I mean that.”

Finally, Ethan peeks up from behind his hands. ” … Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And suddenly a thought pops into Mark’s head. It’s probably dumb, given that there’s little to no chance he’ll be able to follow through on it with the limited time he has, but he says it anyway. “And I wanna help you, so … how about I give this space a few updates?”

That makes Ethan look all the way up. There’s a cautious, yet curious glint in his eyes, and he frowns a little. “What do you mean?”

“Well … ” Mark’s committed at this point, so he just goes for it. “ … Your lighting is already fine, but you could probably use a more powerful computer and a slightly better camera. I love the little green-screen rig you’ve got, and it works great, but a bigger one might open you up to do more creative — ”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on.” Ethan takes a half-step back and holds his hands up in a “slow-the-fuck-down” gesture. Mark’s jaw snaps shut instantly. “Are you offering to … _buy_ me a new computer and a camera and shit?”

It’s kind of hard to read Ethan’s emotions at the moment, so Mark answers timidly, “Yes? If you want? I mean, you don’t have to. I know you worked hard to get all this stuff.”

“You’d really do that?” Ethan almost cuts Mark off, studying his face closely. Mark tries not to flinch under his searching blue-green gaze. “You’d spend your own money to — on _me?”_

Trying to draw from the washed-up, jaded YouTuber mindset this timeline’s Mark is supposed to have, Mark shrugs one shoulder and nods, still unsure about Ethan’s reaction. “I mean, I’m retired. It’s not like I’m gonna be getting myself any new equipment anytime soon. You deserve it more than — ”

“Can I hug you?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and it seems to surprise them both. Ethan’s face is slowly collapsing, his eyes filling with tears (of gratitude, Mark hopes), and he has his fists clenched tight at his sides like he’s holding himself back from … something.

Trying to seem both casual and caring, like he would for any fan, Mark says, “Of course you can.”

In the span of a heartbeat, Ethan’s stepping forward and flinging his arms around Mark’s neck. His chest is pressed to Mark’s and his face is wedged between Mark’s neck and his own bicep and he’s trembling, ever so slightly. Mark wraps his arms carefully around Ethan’s torso, trying to focus on anything but Ethan’s warmth and his scent (how does he smell _exactly_ the same) so his pulse will slow down. It’s no use, though — when Ethan starts to sniffle, Mark can’t help but adjust his grip and hug him like he has so many times before. This Ethan is a bit skinnier than the one Mark’s used to, but it’s still Ethan, and Mark’s arms tighten instinctively around him. One hand starts to slowly rub and pat between Ethan’s shoulder blades, while the other winds around his slim waist and pulls him just a bit closer. Mark closes his eyes and drinks in the contact for as long as he can, trying not to give in to every desire his brain is screaming at him right now.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs when Ethan sniffles again, but he’s saying to both of them. “It’s okay.” Doing his best to avoid outright _nuzzling,_ Mark turns his head just enough to press his nose into Ethan’s dark chestnut hair. When Ethan’s hold tightens, Mark squeezes his eyes shut tighter and tries to suppress the shiver that wants to race up his spine — he’s missed this, missed Ethan’s touch and warmth, so badly.

 _It’s me,_ Mark’s heart whispers. _Do you remember me yet?_

It takes another minute for Ethan to slowly pull out of the embrace. He’s swiping the backs of his hands over his damp eyes and cheeks and all Mark wants is to pull him back in, hold him for hours, but he knows he can’t. He reluctantly loosens the loop of his arms around Ethan’s waist, but he can’t bring himself to let go completely. Not yet.

Luckily, Ethan doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, barking out an embarrassed laugh as he blinks away the last tears from his eyes. “I — N-No one’s ever offered to do something like that for me, a-and it’s been — I’ve got nice stuff, but it’s old and things are breaking and I h-haven’t been able to fix any of it, and I-I only have one lens left for my camera — ”

“And I’m gonna take care of that,” Mark says, cutting off Ethan’s emotional tirade. When Ethan looks up at him, Mark can see each of his eyelashes, some still damp and stuck together. They’re standing so close to each other; Mark has to force himself to finally let go and shove his hands in his jeans pockets. “If you want me to.”

Ethan nods, sniffling one more time. “Yeah,” he says, and he grins like Mark’s just hired him as his editor. “Thank you. I mean it, _thank you._ God, this is _not_ how I thought this day would end.”

Mark smiles back, feeling his own expression soften at Ethan’s genuine shock and gratitude. “You deserve it, man. You’re funnier than me and just as creative, and I mean that. Once you get the right tools to fully express that, you’ll be on your way to big things.”

Ethan’s cheeks go rosy again and his gaze flicks away from Mark’s. It lands on Mark’s shoulder, and Ethan instantly looks mortified. “Oh god,” he mutters, reaching up and touching the fabric of Mark’s black t-shirt — it’s wet. “I cried all over you, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mark insists, waving it off. “‘S not the first time I’ve been cried on, trust me.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Ethan bites his lip and glances back up at Mark’s face. “Y’know, I tried to meet you at those two PAXs I went to years ago. I got lost in the crowd at the first one, and the second one was at your panel in 2015. Bob was coming up to me, but some dude grabbed him in the aisle and ended up proposing to his girlfriend onstage.”

 _So that wasn’t just a dream._ Somehow, Mark’s remembering things that never happened — for him, anyway. He wonders if that’ll become a regular thing over the next week. “I remember that,” he says, soft and a little apologetic. “I’m sorry. Those panels, the fans, they can be downright rabid.”

“Tell me about it. I tried looking for you around the convention for the rest of the weekend, but every time I even got close, I got shoved away.” Ethan hesitates for a moment before walking over to the closet beside his computer desk. He opens the door, rummages around for a few seconds, then pops back out holding a small Tiny Box Tim plush.

Mark’s heart skips. “Oh,” he murmurs, walking over to get a better look. “Is that from my ALS charity stream in, like, 2014?”

“Yeah. I was still kinda bummed I didn’t get to meet you a couple months before, so I bought it during the stream.” Ethan picks a few specks of lint off the top of the toy, setting it down on his desk facing Mark. He meets Mark’s eyes nervously. “I’ve been watching you for … a long time. You’re practically the reason I started my own channel. All I wanted was to meet you and hug you and tell you that, but I never got the chance. Until now.” He huffs a quiet, somewhat sad laugh. “I also wanted to do a backflip for you.”

Mark has to push past the aching sadness consuming his soul to act surprised at that. “Backflip?” he asks, hoping it sounds convincing.

Ethan shrugs. “I did gymnastics for years,” he says. “I thought a backflip would be a good way to get you to remember me.”

“I can guarantee it would’ve worked,” Mark assures him. His pulse is starting to race and the truth of why he’s really here is bubbling up in his throat, desperate to be released, but he swallows it down. “But I’ll be in town for a week, so. Before I leave, you can do one and it’ll be cemented in my head forever.”

The smile Ethan’s been trying to hide changes from wistful to hopeful. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. And.

His eyes are still a little puffy from crying, but they’re sparkling with happiness. The hoodie he’d pulled on while they were eating dwarfs him a bit and makes him look all the more unfairly adorable. His cheeks are the perfect shade of pink and his mouth is just _right there,_ two feet from Mark’s, and they’re alone together in this room — there’s even a blackout curtain drawn over the lone window in the wall behind them. It would be so easy for Mark to grab Ethan and pull him in and kiss him stupid right now.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he breaks eye contact and looks down at the gray rug beneath his feet. “I don’t wanna keep you from getting some work done, so. I think I’m gonna head back to my hotel.” _If I don’t leave now, I’ll fuck this up already._

“Oh. Okay.” Ethan sounds disappointed enough to make Mark second-guess himself for a second.

“But I’ll be here until next Tuesday. If you’ve got time, we could get together tomorrow, maybe hit up a Best Buy?”

That chases the glum fog out of Ethan’s eyes. “Absolutely,” he says, beaming. “I get off work at five thirty. D’you think you could be here around seven?”

“Sure.” Mark takes his phone out of his back pocket and unlocks it, handing it to an awestruck Ethan. “Punch your number in there. I’ll text you.”

“Holyfuck,” Ethan breathes, clearly freaking out. He types his number with shaking fingers before handing the phone back. “Th-There you go.”

“Alright.” Mark looks at the screen and smiles at the gear emoji Ethan’s put after his name. He sends Ethan a quick _Hello there_ with a smiley face and pockets the phone again. “Now don’t go spreading my number on the internet or selling it to some stalker, got it?”

“Yeah, no, of course, holy shit,” Ethan says, pulling out his own phone and staring at the notification on the screen like it’s a presidential alert. He swipes left with his thumb and types something out; a few seconds later, Mark’s phone buzzes. “Have I mentioned how surreal these last couple hours have felt?”

“Once or twice.”

After that, Ethan walks Mark to the door. The younger man says a few more thank-yous, they exchange a couple more witty jokes, and before Mark knows it, they’re in the downstairs atrium again. He fiddles with the sleeves of his jacket, suddenly at a loss for how to say goodbye. They’ll see each other again tomorrow, but this feels … final, somehow.

Mark quickly figures out why — this _is_ a final goodbye, of sorts. Going camera and computer shopping tomorrow will be fun, sure, but Mark knows he can’t keep up his charade for much longer. He has to tell Ethan the truth — or at least part of it — tomorrow, because letting it drag on for another full day will only make it harder for both of them to accept.

Right now, Ethan’s saying goodbye to the version of Mark he’s idolized for the better part of a decade, and he doesn’t even know it. At some point in the next twenty-four hours, he’ll meet the Mark who’s been his best friend for years, the Mark who fucked everything up for both of them, the Mark who loves him.

How he’ll react, if he’ll even believe it, is still up in the air.

“Did you drive here, or take an Uber?” Ethan asks suddenly, snapping Mark out of his anxious reverie. “I can give you a ride back to your hotel if you want.”

“Oh, no, I’ve got a rental,” Mark replies, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Thanks though.”

A somewhat awkward silence falls between them then. Ethan seems to be looking everywhere but at Mark’s face, which is strange. Mark frowns a bit. “What’s up?”

“N-Nothing, I just … ugh, fuck.” Ethan rubs the back of his neck, his gaze fixed somewhere over Mark’s left shoulder. “This is gonna sound weird, but could I maybe … hug you again? I was sort of a mess the first time, and I’ve been imagining it for seven years, so I kinda wanna do it right.”

Mark didn’t think his heart could melt any more than it already has tonight, but he’s quickly proven wrong. He cranes his head a bit to meet Ethan’s eyes and nods, smiling gently. “Wouldn’t wanna crush your dreams,” he says, opening his arms. “C’mere.”

 _Stay fucking calm,_ Mark thinks as Ethan steps into his embrace. He wraps his arms around Ethan’s middle, Ethan’s go around his shoulders, and the rest of the world fades into oblivion. Mark closes his eyes and savors every moment like he’s on death row and this is his last meal. He breathes in Ethan’s miraculously familiar scent and resists the urge to grab Ethan’s shirt in his fists and hang on for dear life. Ethan seems to be doing the same thing, tucking his face against Mark’s neck and holding on tight. Mark can only stand there, rubbing soothing circles into Ethan’s back and trying to commit every bit of this to memory — he doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel it again, after tomorrow.

This hug doesn’t last as long as the one in Ethan’s recording room, but it’s less desperate and just as heartfelt. Ethan pulls back halfway after about thirty seconds to smile up at Mark, clearly satisfied. “You’re a good hugger,” he says, soft, his nose six inches from Mark’s. His arms are still loosely slung around the slightly taller man’s neck, keeping him within kissing distance.

Mark can’t help but stare into Ethan’s eyes, studying every shade of blue and green and brown that sparks in them. “S-So are you,” he murmurs, arms loosening and hands moving to Ethan’s waist. “Was that, um. Worth the seven-year wait?”

Ethan looks like he wants to say something important, but he bites his lip and nods instead. “Yeah.” His eyes flick back and forth between Mark’s eyes and mouth once before he smiles and steps back. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 _Did that just happen oh my god_ “Yeah, for sure. G’night.” Mark carefully schools his features into something neutral but still kind. He offers a quick wave before pushing open the glass door and stepping outside into the chilly night air.

As soon as he’s sitting in his car halfway down the block, Mark lets himself break down a little. His whole body starts to shake as he tangles his fingers in his own hair and pulls, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he can to get rid of the image of Ethan’s face so close to his. There had been so much gratitude and trust in his eyes, but no familiarity, no recognition. He’s Ethan, but he’s not _Ethan._ Despite having spent the last two hours with him, Mark misses him so much his chest burns with it.

It takes about five minutes for Mark to calm down enough to drive. With a numb hand, he pulls his phone out to check the time and sees the notification for Ethan’s text: **_hi there!!! :D_**

As Mark is staring at the screen, another text comes in: **_drive safely markus plier. see you tomorrow!!!_**

It’s so close to normal that Mark almost hurls his phone against the windshield. Instead, he texts back, _Will do my best………see you then!_ and drops it on the passenger’s seat face-down.

Fuck. As daunting a task as telling Ethan the truth will be, it’ll be worth it to not have to keep up this act anymore.

* * *

It’s an easy drive back to the hotel. Mark stumbles into his room on the second floor, bone-tired, and kicks off his shoes. He makes quick work of changing into sweats and a loose t-shirt, brushes his teeth, then hunkers down on the queen-sized bed with his laptop. As usual, he ignores all the email notifications that pop up and goes straight to YouTube.

Unfortunately, his brain is so scattered and focused on other things that nothing grabs his attention for too long. He watches some of Ethan’s videos for awhile — mostly older ones he remembers from his own timeline — and even ventures onto his own channel, only to click away after five minutes.

Curious, Mark eventually googles “markiplier quits youtube” just to see what comes up. A flood of articles and response videos appear, and he clicks through a few. The general reaction to his farewell video is shock and sadness, with a little confusion mixed in here and there. Apparently there hadn’t been many signs that Mark was planning on leaving the platform, but some of the articles do mention the decline in frequency and quality of his content over the past few months.

The most heartbreaking thing Mark finds is all the farewell fanart people have made since his last video. He scrolls through his Tumblr tag and his subreddit, finding heaps of drawings, video tributes, and heartfelt, lengthy posts supporting him and thanking him. Of course, there are a few assholes saying things like “I SAW IT COMING” and “his stuff’s been shit for a long time, glad he finally quit,” but Mark pays no attention to those.

After fifteen minutes of scrolling through pages and pages of art and text posts, Mark can’t see his laptop screen through his tears. He wants so badly to make a quick video, to tell everyone he’s sorry and he made a mistake, but he knows he can’t. He would essentially be speaking for someone else, and the last thing he wants to do is get anyone’s hopes up when there’s a chance this universe will become his permanent reality in eight days.

Plus, any kind of post would probably prompt a flood of texts and calls from everyone he’s told not to contact him this week. Ben would probably freak out, his friends would ask him what’s going on, the lawyers would want to talk … it’s not worth it.

Instead, Mark closes his laptop, hugs the spare pillow, and cries for a few minutes. Here, in this chilly, sterile hotel room, loneliness strikes with a vengeance. He can’t talk to anyone about how this feels, because no one in this timeline knows who he really is.

Well. No one but Amy. Mark considers calling her, but seeing as she hasn’t even texted him all day, he figures she wants to be left alone. He’s not her Mark, after all — he cares about her deeply, but telling her how much it hurts that his best-friend-slash-male-love-interest doesn’t remember him and maybe never will would only hurt her more than he already has.

Once he’s worn himself out, Mark drags himself off the bed and shuffles to the bathroom to wash his face. The white washcloth is coarse against his flushed cheeks, but it does the job. Glancing up at the mirror, Mark is once again struck by how much he _hates_ his hair. It’s shapeless and unflattering and if it gets in his eyes or mouth one more time, he’s gonna shave his head.

A haircut wouldn’t be out of line, would it? It had been a passing thought earlier, but now Mark’s serious. He _is_ going to have basically all day to kill tomorrow before he meets Ethan at seven, so why not do something to make himself feel at least a little more normal? He can’t fit two months’ worth of workouts into a single day, so he’ll have to keep ignoring his smaller frame, but he knows a haircut would make him feel better. His old ‘do is easy enough to describe to a hairstylist.

Alright. Mark now has a goal for tomorrow, which makes it a little easier to breathe. If he had no reason to leave this room before 6:30 tomorrow night, he’d have gone batshit crazy in hours.

Once his eyes aren’t as puffy and his breathing is more steady than not, Mark heads back to the bed. It’s already 11:45, and he’s still running on about four hours of sleep. He sets his laptop on the desk in the corner of the room and crawls under the starchy white sheets, switching off the bedside lamp as he does. As he plugs his phone into the base of the lamp, he decides to forego an alarm, knowing he can afford to and he’d just hit snooze for an hour anyway.

And just like that, Mark is alone in a dark hotel room. The only thing he can hear is the hum of the air conditioning unit beneath the window and the reticent sounds of traffic on the street below. The bed feels a lot bigger and colder than it had with the lights on.

Closing his eyes and going still, Mark employs his infamous “fall-asleep-in-minutes” technique. It works, and by midnight, he’s out.

Across the room in his jacket pocket, a tiny blue stone turns jet black.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark says he’s gonna try to do this without getting in Ethan’s pants but ............... heh.
> 
> comments and kudos welcome i love u all
> 
> come on back for chapter 4 tomorrow!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well well well, looks like it’s time for chapter four!!
> 
> as stated before, I wrote this fic over the course of almost eight months. this means i don’t really remember writing a lot of the earlier chapters, since they were written back in march and april. But this chapter i remember. i remember so badly just wanting the solution to be easy, wanting to make the boys hug it out and send them down a smooth road home, but i forced myself to keep it as realistic as i could without forcing the fic to stretch another 50K words.
> 
> disclaimers: i researched the fawk out of the Maine Mall for this chapter, and I’m dead serious when i say there’s barely any Best Buys in the whole state. it’s nuts. also, i still know nothing about gaming PCs, so forgive my probably-obvious ignorance.
> 
> once again, thank u all SO SO MUCH for all the love. reading your comments while I’m at work keeps me going and just makes me more and more excited to post chapters for you guys. <333 
> 
> hope you enjoy this humble offering!!

Mark gets maybe four hours of decent sleep between midnight and 10 a.m. He finally wakes feeling groggy and disoriented, but it doesn’t take long to remember where he is and why he’s there. He feels like a brain in a jar piloting a meat puppet as he goes through the motions of showering, getting dressed, and munching on a granola bar he’d stashed in his backpack as emergency breakfast rations.

The haircut does help. Mark looks up nearby salons and finds out out there’s one in the mall across the street from the hotel, so that’s where he goes first. The relief he feels when the stylist shows him his reflection and he _recognizes_ himself is profound, and he tips her $50.

After that, he just wanders around the mall for a few hours. Surprisingly, no one comes up to talk to him all afternoon — perhaps the new haircut has more than one use. There’s a moment when he’s eating lunch in the food court where he thinks he sees a group of teenagers whispering and pointing at him from a few tables over, but they otherwise leave him alone. It’s … really nice. For the first time in ages, Mark feels like just another face in the crowd.

He dips in and out of random stores and buys a few things — a soft red blanket from Macy’s since he hates the one at the hotel; a longer charging cable for his phone from a kiosk since he’d forgotten to pack his ten-foot one. Retail therapy is real, and it’s doing wonders for his racing mind and aching heart.

After careful thought, Mark also stops in JCPenney and heads for the jewelry counter. He ends up purchasing a black velvet box for the cursed amulet he’s taken to carrying with him everywhere — he doesn’t want to wear it in front of Ethan, and he’s constantly afraid it could fall out of his pocket if it’s just loose in there. Once he’s bought the box, he scurries away to the bathrooms, oddly paranoid about revealing the amulet in public. It’s not like someone will see it and know what it is; Mark knows that, and yet, he wants to keep it hidden. To him, it’s the only physical proof that what’s happened to him is real, and it’s also proof of his deception.

Deception, he hopes, that won’t go on past tonight. At least where Ethan’s concerned.

Once he’s locked himself in a stall, Mark sets his shopping bags on the ground and takes out the amulet. The sight of the two black stones sends his stomach roiling, and he does his best to ignore the one that’s already changing from red to gray. With shaking hands, he digs the palm-sized square box out of the JCPenney bag and secures the amulet inside. The long chain gets tucked under the white cushion, leaving the charm resting on top. Mark stares at it for a minute, thinking that if his life was a Disney movie, this fucking necklace would be his Enchanted Rose. Beautiful, but cursed, and a constant reminder of the dwindling time he has to set things right.

The box closes with a snap, and Mark shoves it in his jacket pocket. It feels kind of like he’s carrying around a ticking bomb, but he’d rather keep it on him than leave it at the hotel. It’s an odd comfort having it near, despite the havoc it’s wreaked.

By the time Mark’s bored with the mall, it’s only five o’clock. He decides to grab a few slices of pizza from Amato’s in the food court for dinner, then heads back across the street to the hotel. He hadn’t driven — the Doubletree is literally a parking lot’s distance away from the mall’s main entrance, and the walking is therapeutic. Mark suddenly misses his morning walks with Chica and Henry, hoping that Chica’s keeping Amy company back in L.A. He wonders why this timeline’s Amy never adopted Henry — did Ethan influence that decision somehow?

Instead of pondering that, Mark focuses on coming up with a way to tell Ethan he’s from a parallel universe without sounding utterly deranged. He _needs_ to come clean tonight — with only seven and a half days left to make Ethan fall for him, he can’t keep wasting time pretending to be someone he’s not.

Part of him wonders if he could accomplish his goal _without_ telling Ethan the truth. It’s clear Ethan thinks highly of this timeline’s version of Mark, and he’d even _stared at Mark’s mouth_ for a second last night without real prompting. Mark could, in theory, fake it till he makes it and woo Ethan with gifts and sheer charm.

But the more he thinks about that, the more Mark feels … dirty. It would all be an act, like he’s coercing Ethan into feeling something for him under false pretenses, and Mark knows in his very core how wrong that is. Additionally, if anything, er. _Physical_ were to happen between them, there’s no way Mark would be able to keep his true feelings out of it. Trying to hide them would be too painful, and Ethan’s not stupid — he’d start to see through the charade at some point. Then Mark would have to tell him the truth anyway, and any progress that had been made would be lost. No, being honest with him as soon as possible is definitely the way to go.

Still, Mark _did_ promise Ethan new recording equipment. He kind of wants to follow through on that before having The Talk, because he’s honestly not sure Ethan would accept the gifts after finding out why Mark really flew across the country to meet him.

So it’s decided, then. Mark will keep up the act until their shopping spree is done. Once they’re back at Ethan’s apartment, he’ll sit him down and just … tell him.

But _how?_

“I’m not the Mark you know; I’m from an alternate timeline where you did meet me at PAX and I hired you as my video editor and we’re best friends” seems a bit too unbelievable, even though it’s the simplest explanation.

“I’m from a universe where we’re best friends only I wished we’d never met and got transported here because of a magic necklace” makes Mark sound like he’s high on something.

“I’m not who you think I am, and I know you better than you think” is more subtle, but also just plain creepy.

And should Mark even tell Ethan about the falling-in-love part? If Ethan believes his story, by some miracle, and asks how Mark can fix it, what should he say? Should he claim he doesn’t know, or tell him the truth?

Mark determines that that part is a conundrum he will deal with tomorrow. Tonight, he just needs to get out the alternate timeline part and somehow make Ethan believe him at least a little. If he can’t do that, Mark isn’t sure he’ll even have a chance at fixing things. Any way he spins it, it’s still going to sound like the plot of a self-indulgent fanfiction, so he decides to let the night unfold naturally and hope he can string something together when the time is right.

Around 6:15, Mark is sitting on the hotel bed, wrapped in his new fuzzy blanket and fucking around on his laptop. He thought writing out his plight thus far would help him better articulate it out loud, but he’s been typing and deleting the same paragraph over and over for almost an hour now. Every time he’s found a way to make it believable, he’s second-guessed himself and started over. _Kinda reminds me of writing “Heist,”_ he thinks, wincing at the pang of loss that lances through his chest at the thought of his best creation.

Blessedly, his phone buzzing on the bedside table snaps Mark out of the writing trance he’s worked himself into. The sight of Ethan’s name on the screen sends Mark’s heart fluttering, and he can’t help but smile at the text he’s received: **_hey mark!! i’m done w everything i needed to do after work, so you can come over whenever you’re ready! :D_**

About ten seconds later, another message appears: **_still can’t believe i’m actually texting you, tbh…_**

Mark chuckles to himself and unlocks his phone to reply: _Believe it mister :P Ok, I’ll get myself together and head your way. You ready to spend my money?_

**_sure am haha. you still sure you want to?_ **

_Of course I am, I said I was didn’t I? You deserve this_

**_if you say so lol_ **

**_thank you again — not just for this but for everything. you really have no idea how much it means_ **

_Don’t mention it man. It’s been awhile since I got to do something like this for someone and I really think you can go far if you get the right tools in your belt._

**_… can i say something that might sound weird? i promise it’s not meant to be an insult or anything_ **

Mark frowns at his phone, wary but curious. As he walks to the en-suite to brush his teeth and fix his hair, he replies, _Fire away._

The speech bubble that shows when Ethan’s typing appears and disappears about five times before Mark finally gets another text, this one much longer than the rest.

**_you seem different than you were in your last few videos. i know that’s just an onscreen persona or whatever, but you seemed bored and really sad and your jokes were really forced. you’re a lot more laid back and happy than i thought you would be and maybe that’s just cuz this is the “real you” or whatever, but yeah. not really sure how to explain it_ **

Mark instantly feels his pulse start racing as he reads and rereads the message. Ethan can tell he’s acting differently than his jaded other self? Is that … good? It could work to Mark’s advantage when he tries to get Ethan to believe his story, he supposes, but how should he explain it now?

In the time it takes Mark to process the first text, Ethan sends another: **_again, NOT SAYING i thought you’d be an asshole or anything, i guess i’m just surprised that you’re so willing to help out another youtuber this soon after quitting_**

Mark can work with that. Thinking quickly, he responds, _No, I totally get what you’re saying. I guess I’ve just had time to mellow out and rest over the past week now that my schedule isn’t just meetings and recording and editing all day. I was super super stressed and I think I’m finally starting to relax. And helping you out is helping me, too. It’s nice to know there’s still creators out there who work as hard as you and still have a real passion for it._

**_oh yeah that makes total sense. guess i didn’t think of it that way lol. well i’m glad you’re feeling better even tho i really do miss your videos_ **

_You’re totally allowed to miss them dude. I miss them too._ Mark brushes his teeth hastily and fiddles with his hair in the mirror for a couple seconds. A silly idea pops into his head, and he texts Ethan, _I think I might know how cheer you up though._

**_lol what’s that?_ **

Mark snaps a quick mirror selfie, grinning like a meme-y idiot, and sends it to Ethan. _Your very own exclusive Markiplier selfie, feat. my new haircut._

Almost a full two minutes passes with no response. Mark is about to ask if he did something wrong when Ethan finally texts back: **_looks great!! why’d you decide to get one? your hair’s been long for months lol_**

_Think I just needed a change. It was getting annoying lol. I went to a salon in the mall by my hotel._ Double-checking that all the lights are off, Mark closes the hotel room door behind him as he exits. His fingers hover over his phone screen for a few seconds before impulsively typing out another message: _You really like it?_

**_i mean it’s kinda hard for you to look bad with any haircut, but yeah, of course i like it :)_ **

Mark stops in the middle of the hallway and stares at the pixels forming those words so hard they blur. He doesn’t have much time to ponder what they could possibly mean, though, because ten seconds later, Ethan says, **_i made more mac n cheese if you’re hungry, btw_**

Using the last of his brainpower, Mark replies, _Starving, can’t wait. Leaving now!_ and starts walking again.

He’s not sure, but he thinks Ethan could actually be flirting with him.

That could either be really good or really bad, depending on how the rest of the night goes.

Forcing himself to not think about that any further, Mark finds his rental car in the parking lot outside and sets off towards Ethan’s apartment. It feels a little like he’s heading into a wilderness of uncharted land, knowing the way forward but unsure of the way back.

Mark hopes against hope that he isn’t headed straight for a cliff.

* * *

It turns out there’s only three Best Buys in the state of Maine, and one right over the border in New Hampshire. While they dine on Ethan’s expertly-prepared Kraft mac and cheese, Mark and Ethan poke around online to see which stores have cameras and decent gaming desktops in stock. Surprisingly, the only location that has the computer Ethan wants _and_ the camera Mark thinks would work best for him is the Best Buy in the mall across the street from Mark’s hotel.

“It’s the biggest mall in the state,” Ethan points out when Mark expresses his surprise. “Makes sense to me that they’d have everything we need.”

“Yeah, I just think it’s funny,” Mark says, polishing off the last of the cheesy pasta in his bowl. “I was at that mall all day. Could’ve gone in and had them set everything aside for us.”

“Or you could’ve just bought it all and shown up here like Santa,” Ethan says, and they both laugh at that imagery.

Once they’re done eating, Ethan volunteers to drive since he knows his way around in case traffic on 295 gets squirrelly. He drives a black, well-used early 2000s Honda Civic, and while it’s in great shape for its age, Mark can’t help but think of the sporty, powerful Mini Cooper Ethan should be driving. He also can’t help but feel like he should be filming this — it’s like the two of them are going shopping for an Unus Annus video. Once that thought’s in his head, it’s hard for Mark to shake it.

Ethan seems to notice Mark’s jitteriness about halfway into the drive, and he glances over, curious. “What’s up? You get carsick or something?”

“Huh? Oh, no, sorry.” Mark shoves his twitching hands under his thighs and offers his best innocent smile. “Just kinda feels like I should be vlogging this. Tough habit to break after almost eight years.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Ethan switches on his turn signal and changes lanes. The orange glow of the streetlights illuminating the highway cast enchanting shadows over his face; he looks so different than the Ethan Mark knows and yet, somehow, exactly the same. It’s probably the unfamiliar glasses — they’re the same shape as the ones Mark remembers, but the frames are a little thinner, sitting lighter on Ethan’s face.

Blinking, Mark realizes Ethan’s just asked him a question. “What? Sorry, I zoned out there for a sec.”

“I can tell,” Ethan chuckles, fond. His face might be slightly thinner than Mark’s used to, but his smile is definitely unchanged. “I was just wondering if you miss it, at all. I know it’s only been a little over a week, but it was your daily life for years.”

Mark finds he has an honest answer for this, since he hasn’t been able to record or edit or do anything YouTube-related in three days. “I suppose the break is … nice,” he says, “but I kinda thrive on having stuff to do, y’know? It feels like I’m forgetting something, like I should be busy, but I’m just … not.”

“Yeah.” Ethan bites his lip, wringing the steering wheel in his hands. “Actually, I-I almost asked if you wanted to do a video together last night. You seemed so comfortable in my recording room, like … ”

“ … Like I was where I was supposed to be?” Mark finishes, soft. It’s true; he had felt comfortable in Ethan’s recording room because of how purely _Ethan_ it was — the colors, the movie posters hanging on the walls, the familiar neon logo. While he was standing in that room, Mark almost felt at home.

But he can’t tell Ethan this — at least, not at this point in the night. So he says, “I guess I’m the most at home in rooms like that — soundproofing foam, cameras, lights. It’s kinda my natural habitat. And as much as I’d love to make a video with you, I’m sorta … off the grid right now.”

“Wait, really?” Ethan looks puzzled as he glances over at Mark. “You mean no one knows you’re doing this right now? Or that you’re in Maine?”

“I mean, Amy knows,” Mark replies truthfully. “But I told my manager and my lawyers and my other friends that I was just taking a week for myself on the east coast. I guess I was afraid if I told them I was flying out to meet a fan and spend a bunch of money revamping their recording setup, they’d tell me I couldn’t.”

“Huh.” Ethan chews his bottom lip again, thinking. “So, am I never gonna be able to talk about this, then?”

Mark hadn’t really thought about that. He supposes it doesn’t matter, since either way this will have never happened in seven days, but he tries to think of what he’d say if it did. “Maybe not right away,” he replies after a few seconds. “But in a month or two, when the internet is more used to me being less active, sure.”

Ethan nods in understanding. “Okay, that’s fair.” He pauses, tapping the steering wheel with fidgety fingers. “Um. After you leave next week, will you still … I-I mean, are you gonna make me delete your number or anything? ‘Cuz I will, if you want me to, I just … ”

He runs a hand through his chestnut hair, mussing it in a painfully attractive way that makes Mark want to reach out and smooth it down. “ … I dunno, I guess I feel like we get along really well, at least so far. And I’ve wanted to meet you forever, and having your support in literally _any_ capacity is more than I ever thought I’d get, so I kind of don’t wanna pretend this never happened, y’know? I feel like … god, _words!”_

Luckily, Mark is well-versed in Ethan-speak, so he knows exactly what the younger man is trying to say. “I’m not, for lack of a better phrase, a ‘hit ‘em and quit ‘em’ type of person,” he says soothingly, staring at Ethan’s face until Ethan turns to meet his eyes. “You’re right, we do get along well. If I’m in a better spot in a couple months, there’s no reason why we couldn’t meet up again and record something together.”

These are empty, meaningless words; Mark knows this full well, but Ethan needs to hear them right now. Sure enough, Ethan beams and turns to Mark with nothing but mirth in his eyes. “Really?”

Mark just nods and smiles back, ignoring the flood of guilt filling his chest. “Really.” He glances out the windshield when the eye contact gets a little too intense for him. “Exit’s coming up.”

“Oh, shit, right.”

The mall is right off the highway, so they pull up to it a couple minutes later. It’s not hard to see the new spring in Ethan’s step as he walks through the parking lot a few paces ahead of Mark, pulling his hoodie sleeves down over his hands against the evening chill. It’s about 40 degrees, so Mark, spoiled by mild California weather year-round, shivers lightly and zips up his jacket. “Shoulda put on another layer,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. His right hand wraps around the velvet box holding the amulet, a harsh reminder that this amicable atmosphere won’t last all night.

Slowing down a bit, Ethan looks back over his shoulder at Mark. “Aww, is the Big California Boy cold?” he teases gently, quirking an amused half-smile.

“Shut up,” Mark says, but he can’t keep the laugh out of his voice.

Once they’re in Best Buy, Ethan gets a little overwhelmed. It was one thing to look at the cameras and computers online, but seeing them in person makes everything a little more real. “I can’t believe you’re doing this for me,” he tells Mark as he runs his hand down the side of the sleek CybertronPC desktop he picked out. “This — This is _eight thousand dollars.”_

“And that’s well within my budget,” Mark assures him, hoping he doesn’t sound like an ass. After a moment of hesitation, he rests a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and squeezes briefly. “You deserve this, okay? And compared to the computer you’re working with right now, this is gonna make almost everything about your recording and editing process smoother. Hell, you’ll probably never drop frames in a game again with the graphics card in this sucker.”

“I know.” Ethan looks up to meet Mark’s eyes, the gratitude in his own shining brighter than the multicolored LEDs in the computer. “I just … thank you. Again. I’m probably not gonna stop saying that for awhile.”

“Then I just won’t stop saying you’re welcome,” Mark replies, offering a kind smile. “Now c’mon, let’s find someone who works here to hook us up with one of these bad boys.”

The box for the computer is too heavy to carry around, so they have an employee get them a cart to wheel it out to Ethan’s car. They also pick up the camera Mark recommended — a Sony A7 III, his preferred webcam despite how overpowered it is for the job. Tacking on the cost of a couple lenses so Ethan isn’t limited to using the camera for one purpose, the total at checkout is … more than Mark had anticipated, honestly. But given that this isn’t even really his money and the dent in his account will only be there for a week, it’s shockingly easy for Mark to hand over a debit card without blinking.

Ethan’s strangely quiet on the drive back to his apartment. The radio’s playing some staticky alt-rock station that grates on Mark’s nerves a bit, but he ignores it in favor of trying to get Ethan to talk to him. The younger man only answers in short sentences and won’t stop chewing the inside of his cheek; Mark recognizes the signs of an impending panic attack but says nothing. He can’t let on yet how intimately familiar he is with Ethan’s idiosyncrasies and the way his brain works, so he does his best to keep Ethan talking and hopes the anxiety passes.

It doesn’t.

As soon as they’ve carried everything up to Ethan’s apartment, he retreats into himself in a way Mark’s only seen a couple times. He starts pacing back and forth through the living room, staring at the boxes just inside the door for a few seconds at a time before looking away and shaking his head.

Alright, no more Mr. Oblivious. “Ethan?” Mark approaches him warily, not wanting to spook him. “What’s going on, what’s wrong?”

“You just spent so much money on me,” Ethan chokes out, talking so fast Mark wouldn’t be able to understand him if he hadn’t heard it before. He speaks in hasty run-on sentences, barely stopping to breathe: “No one’s ever wanted to do anything like this for me because no one thinks I’m going anywhere on YouTube, not my friends or my parents or anyone, they all tell me I’m a fucking idiot for spending so much time on it and putting so much effort into something with hardly any payoff, and sometimes I think they’re right, but then _you_ come fucking swooping in here like, like _Ellen_ or some shit a-and get me all this stuff and tell me I deserve it and I have potential when it’s really really fucking hard for me to believe that, because I’ve been told so many times that I’m just a f-fucking wannabe who’ll never make it and Jesus Christ, _why_ did I let you do this for me, oh my _god,_ I’m so fucking — ”

Ethan’s whole body is shaking and he’s hugging himself tighter and tighter with every word and Mark can’t take it anymore. Without thinking, he reacts on instinct.

He’s only had to do this once, backstage at the first You’re Welcome Tour date, but it had worked in about a minute. Not giving Ethan the chance to get away, Mark grips his biceps and walks him backwards to the kitchenette until he’s pressed against the wall. Gently but assertively, Mark works Ethan’s arms free of the constrictor hold they’ve got around Ethan’s ribcage and grabs his thin wrists. He presses his thumbs to the rapidly-beating pulse points and starts to rub slow, firm circles into them, timing them with his own steady breathing.

Staring into Ethan’s wide, tear-filled eyes, Mark murmurs, “Look at me, Ethan. Don’t look anywhere else but at me, okay? You’re safe, everything’s fine. Try to match my breathing.”

Ethan looks stunned as Mark starts to inhale and exhale deliberately, encouraging him to copy the movement. He does, but his expression doesn’t get much calmer — if anything, he’s looking more and more puzzled with each breath.

Mark knows why. This is a cool-down technique his Ethan had told him about before they’d started the first leg of the tour. “I got panic attacks a lot as a kid, and most of the way through high school,” he’d explained, pressed against Mark on the couch one afternoon in the old warehouse loft studio. “My dad came up with this method of calming me down when I was like ten, completely on accident. I was in the middle of a tantrum and I’d started hitting his chest, so he grabbed my wrists to make me stop and kinda shoved me against a wall for a few minutes. As soon as he squeezed my wrists, I felt calmer. So … if I ever get stage fright or anything and start freaking out, just do that. Don’t, like, pin me or anything, but if you can keep pressure on my wrists and hold me still for a couple minutes, I should calm down.”

Apparently, it works across timelines. Ethan’s breathing steadily in under two minutes, his body no longer trembling like it’s about to shake apart. He’s staring at Mark so intently from behind his glasses, though, his watery eyes searching for answers to the questions that are no doubt flying through his head right now.

With a sigh, Mark lets go of Ethan’s wrists and takes a step back. He knows his cover’s blown — there’s no way he can explain how he knew this secret of Ethan’s without telling the truth.

Sure enough, Ethan’s breathless voice breaks the silence with a simple question: “How did you do that?”

It’s now or never.

Mark can’t bring himself to meet Ethan’s eyes as he answers. He only hopes his racing heart isn’t audible in his voice. “You told me about it once,” he says, quiet. “Years ago. You said it’s something your dad used to do for you when you had panic attacks as a kid.”

“I — Years ago — ? We met _yesterday,”_ Ethan stammers. When Mark looks back up at him, his mouth is opening and closing as he searches for words. “You shouldn’t — Th-There’s no way you could — ”

It’s a real struggle to keep his own emotions in check as Mark slowly shakes his head. “We didn’t meet yesterday. I’ve known you since 2016, and I met you twice before that. Ethan, I … ”

_Fuck._ Mark looks down at his socked feet and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, fighting off the terrified tears threatening to come up. “ … I have to tell you something,” he says past the growing lump in his throat, hoping his expression on his face is more earnest than desperately deranged. “A-And you probably won’t believe me at first, but I _swear_ to you, every word of it is the truth. Please, can we — can we go sit on the couch?”

Ethan’s clearly skeptical, and he’s wrapped his arms around himself again, though not as tight as before. It takes several long seconds, but he does eventually nod.

They end up seated beside each other on the gray couch, both nervous for different reasons. Ethan has his legs crossed and a throw pillow clutched to his chest, and he’s not looking at Mark. Mark bites his lip and risks a gentle touch to Ethan’s knee. Ethan flinches, but it gets him to glance over and meet Mark’s eyes.

Immediately taking his hand away, Mark clenches it into a fist against his own leg. “You don’t have to look at me if you don’t want to,” he says softly, “but it might help you see that I’m being honest.”

After a long moment of hesitation, Ethan nods, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

He sounds tense, but not angry or hurt. Yet. Mark takes that as a small win. “Okay.”

Taking a deep breath, Mark starts from the beginning.

He tells Ethan everything up to the fight that had caused this mess. Forcing himself to keep his gaze up and on Ethan’s face, Mark tells him about the first backflip at PAX 2014, and the second one a year later that cemented their fates. He tells him about the phone call he’d made in the fall of 2016, offering to move Ethan out to L.A. and hire him as a full-time editor. He goes through the end of that year with a smile, quickly but fondly describing “Disco Discomfort” and the other amazing videos they’d made together that had changed the direction of his channel in a much-needed way.

Mark goes a little more in-depth about “A Date with Markiplier” and “Who Killed Markiplier?”, emphasizing Ethan’s critical role in making those projects happen. He speeds through the tour, but mentions that that was when he found out about the panic attacks. He goes through the rest of 2017, touching on “Markiplier Makes” and the several charity streams Ethan had helped orchestrate, and skips over a lot of 2018 — even with Ethan in his life, that year had been rough. 2019, though, saw the return of “Markiplier Makes” and the creation of “Heist” — once again, a project Ethan had been indispensable for, even with a broken hand. Mark talks for several minutes about “Heist” alone, watching Ethan’s face closely for any signs of … anything, really. The younger man has stayed worryingly silent through Mark’s monologue thus far.

But Mark presses on, because he’s reached the most important part of his story. “In late October, you and I were at a Buffalo Wild Wings and talking about random shit,” he explains. “You mentioned that you were thinking about starting a second channel for making basically whatever you wanted, without having to worry about monetization or the fucking algorithm or anything. I told you I’d had the same idea, but I also wanted a channel that would only be up for a year — one video a day for 365 days, then it all gets deleted. You loved it. We googled some ideas for names for awhile until we decided on the Latin phrase for ‘one year’: Unus Annus.

“The videos were, honestly, the most fun either of us had had in years. We did dumb shit like cup stacking with plastic baby hands, trying to drink two gallons of eggnog, cooking breakfast with sex toys … but we also had more serious videos where we went somewhere and spoke to an expert about a particular skill or trade, and tried it for ourselves. We’ve done glass blowing, archery, fucking _goat yoga_ , and we had some awesome stuff planned for the future. But.”

This is where Mark finally falters. He doesn’t want to go too deep into detail, but he has to offer some explanation as to how he got here. “After the last video we filmed, you and I got in a fight. We’ve never gone at each other like this before, and it got … hurtful. We both said some things we didn’t mean, and I … I fucked up. I wished for something I didn’t really want. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a house I didn’t recognize, in bed with my ex-girlfriend. And your number wasn’t in my phone, you’d never been in a single one of my videos, and your channel was a fraction of the size it should be.”

Just as he had when he’d gotten to this point with Amy, Mark chokes up and looks down at his hands in his lap. “I-I found out how to fix it, but I had to get to you first. So I found your address and got on the first flight I could, and prayed to whoever would listen that you wouldn’t slam your door in my face when I knocked on it. And you didn’t.”

Sniffling, Mark blinks away the tears starting to cloud his vision and looks back up at Ethan’s pensive face. “S-So that’s that,” he says, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, I just didn’t know how to. And I get if you don’t — d-don’t believe me right away, that’s fine, but I swear on my fucking life it’s the truth.”

With that, Mark finally goes quiet. He watches Ethan’s face closely as it changes from skeptical to unsure to a little afraid. He hasn’t started yelling or kicked Mark out yet, though, which. Another small win.

A minute of tense silence passes before Ethan finally speaks. “So,” he starts, slow and hesitant, “you’re from a … parallel universe. Where you and I are best friends who work together every day.”

Mark nods, meek.

“And we’re friends because I _did_ backflip for you at PAX, and you remembered me.”

“Right.”

“And without me, your channel would’ve become aimless and generic and you would’ve eventually quit YouTube.”

“Yes. Look, I-I know it sounds fucking insane, I _get_ that, but I wouldn’t lie about something like this. Especially not to you.” Mark wrings his hands and stares at Ethan, trying desperately to decipher what the younger man is thinking. When the silence stretches on for another minute, Mark breaks it, nearly vibrating out of his skin from nerves. “Say something.”

“I … don’t know what to say, Mark,” Ethan replies, his tone carefully neutral. Something minute in his expression changes, and he puts aside the pillow he’s been holding, shifting on the couch so he’s facing Mark. His eyes flick down to Mark’s chest, focused, and he slowly reaches up to touch Mark’s jacket. Deft fingers skim over the fabric, trace the zipper and buttons, and dip under the flaps of the two breast pockets.

Mark sits frozen, not sure what’s happening. When Ethan starts trying to yank his jacket off, he snaps back to the present and grabs Ethan’s hands, holding them still. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Looking for the fucking — hidden mic, or lapel camera,” Ethan spits, suddenly — and very obviously — angry. He struggles to rip his hands out of Mark’s iron grip and glares at him, betrayal shining in his enraged eyes. “I see what this is, now — I’m a fucking _joke,_ right? Y-You got washed up, figured you needed something big and _different_ to make your comeback with. So you found me and saw how much I — saw me mention you in a video, and thought, ‘Hey, why don’t I make this guy feel _really special_ for a little bit and then treat him like an _imbecile?_ That’ll be super funny!’”

Mark shakes his head, incredulous that Ethan could think so little of him. “Ethan, _no,_ that’s not what this is — ”

_“Don’t_ fucking lie to me!” Ethan finally gets his hands free and uses them to shove Mark away, standing up and stalking towards his bedroom. “Get the fuck out, you jaded fucking asshole.”

“Ethan, wait, wait!” Mark leaps up and sprints over to Ethan, grabbing him a little roughly and holding him against the wall beside his bedroom door. He has to get Ethan to listen. “I’m not lying to you, I swear I’m not, I — ”

“Let _go of me!”_ Ethan kicks and squirms and snarls, but tears are streaming down his cheeks. Mark’s heart shatters at the sight, and he feels _wretched_ for making any version of Ethan feel like this.

“You have to listen to me, I’m telling the truth, I _know_ you — ”

“Shut up, shut _up,_ y-you don’t know _shit_ about me — ”

“Yes I do, I — ”

“You _don’t!”_

_“Yes,_ Ethan, I — ”

“No!”

_“You hate velvet!”_

Ethan’s struggling stops. He stares at Mark in confusion, still crying but not fighting anymore, at least for now. He sniffles, loud. “What?”

A spark of hope flares to life in Mark’s chest, but he refuses to fan it yet. “You hate velvet,” he repeats, a little desperate. “Y-You told me once it feels like ants are crawling up your arms every time you touch it. Feet, too; you’re really weirded out by feet.”

Breathing hard, Ethan drops his gaze from Mark’s, his expression smoothing out just a little. “ … I-I’ve probably mentioned that in my videos at some point,” he mutters. “Anyone who watches my channel could — ”

“When you were a kid, you were terrified of the ring wraiths from _Lord of the Rings,”_ Mark continues, cutting him off because he _needs_ Ethan to understand. “So you — you’d hold your breath when you thought you saw them outside your bedroom window at night, so they wouldn’t detect you.”

Ethan doesn’t respond to that one. He just gapes at Mark, stunned, trust and disbelief fighting a war in his eyes.

Mark continues in a breathless rush, dredging every fact he’s ever learned about Ethan from the depths of his mind: “You’re deathly allergic to peanuts. You’ve won tons of gymnastics competitions but you didn’t make it to nationals by a fraction of a point. Your parents divorced when your were about sixteen, and you saw it coming. Your first real brush with death was when you had to put your childhood dog down. Her name was Cooper; you picked out her name. One of the worst pains you’ve ever felt was when your gymnastics coach poured hydrogen peroxide over a huge callous rip in your palm during a competition. You like pineapple on pizza, which is disgusting and I’ve never forgiven you for it. You cry at sad dog commercials.”

Despite his best efforts, Mark’s voice breaks, along with his composure. Ethan’s not crying anymore, just staring in awe, so Mark figures it’s his turn anyway. “Y-You’re kind,” he whispers, struggling to force the words out of his closed throat. “You’re selfless and creative and y-you can’t take a compliment to save your damn life. You always know what to say when someone’s sad, a-and even though I pretend to hate them on camera, your hugs are … perfect.”

By now, Mark’s started sobbing, and his grip on Ethan’s shoulders has loosened. Ethan looks a little scared, but not angry anymore. Mark stares into his eyes as best he can when his own are overflowing with tears. “I-I’m not lying,” he hisses through clenched teeth, _willing_ Ethan to believe him. “You’re my best friend. And even though y-you’re right here, I miss you. I-I _miss you_ so fuckin’ much I can barely breathe — ”

Ethan’s hugging him before either of them knows what’s happening. Mark wraps his arms around Ethan’s shoulders reflexively, buries his face in Ethan’s neck, and weeps. He vaguely registers Ethan rubbing his back and murmuring in his ear, but he can’t make out the words over the sound of his own sobs. He knows his glasses are probably digging painfully into Ethan’s skin, but Ethan doesn’t push him away — in fact, the harder Mark cries, the tighter the embrace gets.

Mark has no idea how long this lasts, or who pulls away first. All he knows is the next time he opens his eyes, he’s kneeling on the floor with his arms around Ethan’s neck. Somehow, he’s ended up practically straddling Ethan’s legs, pressed against him from chest to hips. It’s … overwhelming, to say the least, but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“Fuck,” he chokes out with a wet sniffle. He takes his glasses off with one hand and tosses them somewhere to his right, scrubbing at his puffy eyes with the heel of his palm. “Shit. ‘M sorry.”

Ethan’s just … quiet. He keeps his arms loosely around Mark’s waist and holds him steady; Mark can feel him staring, thinking, judging. It’s horrible. Fighting every instinct to cling and grab and hold, Mark finally drags himself away from the remnants of the embrace, backing up until he’s sitting a few feet away from Ethan on the hardwood floor.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again, wiping his runny nose on the sleeve of his jacket like a sick third-grader. “Didn’t mean t’ do that.”

“It’s okay,” Ethan replies, finally breaking his silence. His voice is neutral, unreadable. Mark hears him stand and glances up to watch him walk over to the kitchenette. He comes back holding a box of tissues and sits down right in front of Mark, so close their knees are touching. “Here,” he says, setting the box in Mark’s lap.

Mark sobs once and shakes his head, pushing it away. “D-Don’t you need some?”

“Just take them, Mark.”

Hesitating, Mark studies the solemn, yet concerned look on Ethan’s face for a few long seconds before pulling a few tissues out of the box. He blows his nose and dries off his face, feeling more and more ridiculous as the moments pass.

It takes a few minutes for Mark to work up the courage to speak again. Clearing his throat roughly, he picks apart the balled-up tissue in his hands and feels his shoulders slump further. “I know it sounds crazy,” he murmurs. “I know you probably think I’m insane now, and I’ll leave if you want me to. But — ”

“I don’t.”

Stunned, Mark looks up from the shredded tissue to meet Ethan’s eyes. The younger man is watching him carefully, still trying to figure out exactly what’s going on, but the anger and panic from before seems to be gone. Fuck, Mark thinks his heart might stop. “Huh?”

“I don’t think you’re insane,” Ethan elaborates. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, gaze flitting from Mark’s tear-streaked face to a point somewhere over Mark’s left shoulder. “Yeah, I mean, what you said is … it makes my head hurt, honestly. But there’s no fucking way you could know _that much_ about me unless we were friends. I don’t talk a whole lot about my family or my friends on my channel, so it’s not like you tracked them down and got them to, like, spill all my secrets just to pull some stupid prank.”

Mark’s mouth opens and closes as he tries to form a response, but his mind and heart are racing too fast for any words to escape. He’s only thought ahead to telling Ethan the truth — he didn’t really plan for what he would do if Ethan actually believed him. _Holy shit, do I actually have a chance to fix things?_ Finally, he manages to ask, “S-So you believe me?”

Ethan bites his lip in thought. A conflicted wrinkle forms between his eyebrows as he studies Mark’s face again, perhaps searching for any signs of deceit. Mark can’t imagine what he must look like right now — puffy and snotty and pathetic — but hey, maybe the ugliness will help convince Ethan of his sincerity. Mark’s good at keeping secrets, sure, but he’s never been a good liar.

About thirty tense, breathless seconds later, Ethan declares, “I don’t know yet.” He looks down at Mark’s trembling hands for a moment and makes an aborted move to reach out and touch them; Mark truly feels like he’s about to swallow his own tongue. “I-I know I can’t explain how you know so much about me and my life, and I definitely can’t explain how much _you_ seem to believe yourself. But it’s just … It’s like something out of a movie, y’know?”

Mark nods, perhaps a bit too emphatically. “Trust me, I definitely know,” he says, still sniffling a bit. “I’ve felt like that for the past three goddamn days.”

“I think I just need some time to process … everything,” Ethan says, meeting Mark’s eyes again. He sighs and scrubs a hand down his face, shaking his head once like he’s snapping all the little parts of his brain Mark just knocked loose back into place. “I think I — we — should just. Sleep off these nerves and reconvene tomorrow. It’s been a crazy fucking day and we’re both completely drained and if this conversation is gonna be, like, life-altering, I kinda think it should happen when both of us can speak for three minutes without bursting into tears.”

For all the shit Mark likes to give Ethan about how young and immature he can be, sometimes he’s the voice of reason Mark needs. “Okay,” he says with a slow nod, despite being utterly terrified to leave without knowing what Ethan’s really thinking. “Yeah, you — you’re right.” Clearing his throat again, he scoops up the shredded tissue bits from the floor and forces himself to his feet. Ethan follows, still only standing a foot and a half away, and Mark has to walk to the garbage can under the kitchen sink before he does something stupid.

When he turns back around, Ethan’s right there again, holding out Mark’s glasses. “Don’t forget these,” he says. For the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth twitches up in the ghost of a smile.

“Thanks.” Mark takes them and rubs the smudged lenses on his shirt before putting them back on. “Um. I-I guess I’ll go now.”

“This isn’t me telling you I never wanna see you again, okay?” Ethan’s expression morphs from mostly neutral to vaguely reassuring, but it’s more than enough for Mark. “I’ll call you sometime tomorrow. I just need some time to think. Okay?”

Mark chooses to believe him because, frankly, the alternative leaves him with very little reason to go on living. “Okay,” he says, managing a tiny smile of his own. After a pause, he adds, “I’m sorry. Tonight was supposed to be exciting for you, and — ”

He’s cut off by Ethan actually pressing a finger to his lips. It isn’t there for long, maybe two seconds at most, but it shuts Mark up and makes his skin tingle.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Ethan says simply as he takes his finger away. “I promise.”

Mark stares at him with a dumbfounded, likely ridiculous expression for a few seconds. “Okay,” he repeats. “Um. G-Goodnight, then.”

With that, Mark ducks past Ethan and heads for the door. He’s turning the knob when he feels a hand on his bicep, warm and strong. Before he knows what’s happening, Ethan’s spinning him around and pulling him into another hug.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” Ethan murmurs in Mark’s ear, “but I do know I trust you.” He fists his hands in Mark’s jacket and holds tight. “Is — Is that enough? For now, at least?”

Mark melts a bit and wraps his arms around Ethan’s waist. No matter what universe he’s in or how haywire his emotions are firing, he’s never going to be able to resist an Ethan hug. “I think so,” he replies, whispering the words into Ethan’s soft hair.

Ethan nods wordlessly against his shoulder, and Mark finally takes a breath.

He leaves the apartment still lonely and anxious as hell, but for the first time in days, he feels a spark of real, genuine hope.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think!! 
> 
> random side note: how we feelin after that last UA fellow shippers? i for one was compromised all day. but now i at least have a visual in my head for all the hugs that appear throughout this fic. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Who’s ready for a doozy of a chapter??
> 
> This one ran pretty long because i honestly couldn’t pick a better place to end it — i wrote this fic as a one-shot, so cutting it up into chapters was a little difficult! I hope you guys still enjoy it!! Also, I’ve started updating the tags a little bit based on what happens in each chapter — tomorrow’s update will get a few, erm. Telling tag updates, if you catch my drift. BUT that’s all I’ll say for now!! 
> 
> Once again, thank you all so much for the amazing feedback and love and just UGH. Everything. I’m so happy you all like my self-indulgent ramblings and I’m proud to be a supplier of serotonin (looking at you lovely “B)” lol <3). I hope i can keep meeting your expectations!!
> 
> Some disclaimers as always: i think i let part of this chapter get a little melodramatic, but i also tried to keep it self-aware. Also, very important note: i wrote this “chapter” of the fic in April, i think, SEVERAL months ago, way before Ethan and Mika broke up. There’s a brief part in here about them fictionally breaking up that i contemplated taking out of the fic completely just bc it felt a little weird, but i opted to leave it in. The reasons for their breakup i describe in this fic are NOT AT ALL what i think actually happened irl between them, and i don’t really care what actually happened between them, because it’s none of my business. I’m glad they seem to still be on good terms and doing well, and that’s all that matters to me.
> 
> Alright, now that that’s out of the way, here’s chapter five! Enjoy!!

Once again, sleep evades Mark from dusk till dawn, and he only manages to doze for about two hours. The potent mix of relief, fear, and anticipation he’s felt since coming clean to Ethan has seeped into every corner of his brain and utterly decimated his chances of getting any quality rest. Instead of curling up in bed as soon as he gets back to his hotel room and riding out his perpetual panic attack with his face sandwiched by two pillows, he ends up pacing back and forth for forty-five minutes. All he can do is go over the night’s conversation in his head and wonder what Ethan’s going to say tomorrow. Will there be questions about their friendship? About Ethan’s life with Mark in it?

Will Ethan ask how Mark is supposed to fix it? If so, how is Mark supposed to answer?

The owner of the metaphysical shop hadn’t told Mark about any stipulations regarding how much he’s allowed to tell Ethan about the … the “curse,” or whatever the fuck. So logically, there shouldn’t be any consequences if Mark is honest and explains he needs to make Ethan fall in love with him.

Well. No _magical_ consequences. Practical consequences, however … those are much more likely. Mark is terrified of somehow scaring Ethan off with that information, or worse yet, tricking him into feeling something that’s not real. Yes, Mark’s just dumped thousands of dollars into Ethan’s recording setup, but that hadn’t really been working towards his end goal. He’d done that simply because he wanted to — if Ethan swooned over it at any point, Mark never noticed.

At the end of the day, Mark knows the love he’s supposed to elicit from Ethan needs to be organic, not forced or bought. Not that he would ever try to force Ethan to love him. The thought of manipulating _anyone_ into feeling _any_ kind of way about him makes Mark queasy.

Still. He only has so much time left.

When the digital clock on the bedside table strikes midnight, Mark is still awake to watch the fourth crystal on the amulet turn black. He sits hunched over against the wall by the bathroom door and cradles the necklace in his palms, trembling silently as more time literally slips through his fingers.

Six days. That’s all he has left. And he’s not even entirely certain Ethan believes him yet.

The cycle repeats for hours: Mark paces around the room, sits on the bed and scrolls through the unfamiliar photos in his phone’s camera roll, tries to find something watchable on TV, fails, grabs a snack from his food stash in the minifridge, then paces again. It’s six a.m. before he wears himself out enough to finally collapse on the bed and sleep.

He’s woken up around 8 by his almost-dead phone buzzing on the bedside table. Ethan’s calling him.

Trying and failing to sound like an emotionally stable adult, Mark answers with, “I didn’t think you’d call this soon.” Despite the fatigue weighing him down, a spike of adrenaline shoots up his spine and resurrects the anxiety from the night before.

Ethan actually chuckles a little. “Neither did I,” he says, voice guarded but light. “I, um. Didn’t sleep well last night, and I kinda just wanted — needed — to see you. To talk everything out.”

Mark sits up in bed, rubbing the bleariness out of his eyes with one hand. “I barely slept either,” he admits, swallowing hard to force his heart back down into his chest. “And I definitely want to talk.”

Something occurs to him then, and he falters. “Wait. Don’t you have work in a couple hours? I don’t wanna keep you away from — ”

“I took a few days off,” Ethan interjects. “I have some PTO saved up, and I’m a manager there, so. There aren’t many people who can tell me no.”

“Oh.” Mark chews on his bottom lip and twists the edge of the bedsheet between the shaking fingers of his free hand. He starts mentally counting the stitches along the hem without meaning to. “Well that’s good, I guess. Um. Did you want me to come over, then, or … ?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d be up for breakfast?” The idea alone is enough to make Mark’s empty stomach growl. “There’s this cool diner by the cove that’s probably, like, ten minutes away from your hotel. We could meet there?”

“Yeah, sure!” Mark says, perhaps too enthusiastic. He takes his phone away from his ear and puts the call on speaker. “What’s it called?”

“It’s the Miss Portland Diner, right off 295,” Ethan replies. “It’s like one of those retro fifties diner cars. My dad and I go there for breakfast sometimes — the food’s pretty basic, but it’s good.”

“It looks awesome,” Mark says, already scrolling through the restaurant’s website. The vibrant photos of eggs and bacon only make him hungrier. According to Google Maps, it’s an 11 minute drive from the Doubletree. “I can meet you there around nine?”

“Works for me.”

After a stilted goodbye, Mark hangs up and climbs out of bed. He’s both looking forward to and deeply dreading being face-to-face with Ethan again, but he’d known when he bought that plane ticket that this conversation would have to happen eventually. Better to sit down and get it over with as cleanly as possible.

Mark is careful to keep his mind as blissfully blank as possible while he showers, despite the wave of anxiety and panic threatening to wash over his body the moment he lets his guard down. This is a good thing, he tells himself as he gets dressed and towels off his hair a bit. Ethan isn’t cutting him off or shutting him out — he _wants_ to hear what Mark has to say, and that can only be a good sign. If he were going to tell Mark to fuck off to L.A. and never come back, surely he would’ve done that last night?

Despite the reassurances he repeats in his head for himself, Mark still wrings his hands nervously around the steering wheel as he drives to the diner. He resolves to keep his optimism cautious until Ethan outright says “I believe you,” which, for all Mark knows, might not even happen. Yes, this breakfast invitation is a good sign, but Mark still has to prove his story beyond a doubt. Given all the facts he’d rattled off about Ethan last night that only a close friend could know, he’s honestly not sure what else he could possibly say to make Ethan believe him.

Maybe it’s time for actions to take the place of words, then. The wrist thing had been what finally caused Ethan to look at Mark differently, after all. But it’s not like Mark can just start poking Ethan’s most ticklish spots (his neck and sides) in a diner booth, or touch his nose to Ethan’s ever-so-lightly and expect him to get the reference.

He supposes he could show Ethan the amulet and try to explain the metaphysical aspect of the story, but. That would mean telling him the way to reset things, which would be delving into the feelings Mark hasn’t even told his own version of Ethan. There will inevitably come a time for that, but Mark doesn’t really want it to happen over pancakes.

 _Fuck. Stop overthinking it,_ Mark chastises himself as he takes the exit towards downtown Portland. _If he has questions, answer them honestly and hope you’re being convincing. That’s all you can do now._

The diner is actually really cool. Mark spends a good five minutes sitting in his car, admiring it from the parking lot, before he takes a deep breath and heads inside. Surprisingly, given the popularity and diminutive size of the place, Mark is seated at a booth right away. Refusing to check the time on his phone, he glances between the door and the menu for ten minutes until Ethan finally walks in.

“Sorry I’m late,” the younger man says as he slides into the booth opposite Mark. His hair is still damp from a recent shower and his eyes are bleary, but at least he’s being cordial. “Ran into some traffic by my apartment.”

“It’s alright,” Mark says, setting the menu aside and reaching for the mug of diner coffee the waitress had poured for him when he’d been seated. As always, he feels his pulse quickening the longer Ethan watches him. “I’m surprised I got here on time — ‘m running on about two hours of sleep.”

“Dude. That’s, what, six total over the last two days?” Ethan actually looks concerned; Mark viciously stomps his optimism back down as it rises. “Can’t say I’ve never done that myself, but you’re gonna keel over. You drove here?”

Mark nods as he sips the bitter coffee, feeling it warm his throat. “I’m fine to drive,” he insists, but he can feel his hands shaking around the yellow mug. “Just … jet lag and stress, y’know? Not exactly conducive to restful sleep.”

“Yeah, but still.” Ethan flips his own mug over and sets it on the edge of the table, ready to be filled. “You’re gonna need more coffee.”

They don’t speak much after that until their food arrives and Mark has two cups of coffee in him. He’s perked up a bit now, sure, but he still feels slightly nauseous as he waits for Ethan’s inevitable line of questioning to start. Hoping to put it off for just a few more minutes, he digs into his pancakes, unable to hold back a low moan after his first bite. “Fuck, these’re good,” he slurs around his mouthful.

“Yeah, pretty much everything here is that good,” Ethan says as he starts on his “Build-Your-Own” omelette. “It’s totally not fair.”

That only makes Mark more eager to taste the home fries and scrambled eggs he’d gotten as sides. Momentarily distracted by the delicious food and semi-easy conversation, he spears a couple potato chunks on his fork and says, “Still not as good as my dad’s pancakes, but y’know. Definitely not bad.”

The fork stops halfway to his mouth when Ethan asks, “Was that something he made a lot?”

 _Right._ Even with the relatively comfortable vibe they’ve created here, Mark’s gotta remind himself there’s little details this Ethan has no way of knowing. Meeting Ethan’s eyes, he nods, hoping the momentary shock from that little reality check isn’t showing too clearly on his face. “He loved making pancakes,” he says, matching Ethan’s use of the past tense. _Thank god for his fanboy knowledge._ “He, uh. He used to make them every Sunday morning when I was growing up, but he’d make the batter on Saturday and leave it in the fridge overnight. They’re still the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”

A thought pops into Mark’s head, then, and he looks back down at his plate to cut another bite of pancake. Once he’s swallowed it, his resolve is strong enough for him to say, “I actually told you that story when we were filming the first Markiplier Makes video. We made pancake art. You and Tyler kept asking me how mine looked so nice, so I told you guys I learned from my dad.”

He pauses, huffing out a quiet laugh at the memory, and risks a glance up at Ethan. The other man is listening quietly, gaze steady and expression unreadable. Mark forces himself to smile a little and keeps talking. “My pancakes were a little thin and bland, and Tyler’s had a good texture but his artistic skills were way off. Yours were … you dumped half a bag of sugar into your batter and they ended up looking like dog vomit, but they tasted the best. We actually ate them all after we finished recording.”

Ethan studies Mark’s face for several long seconds. Belief and doubt are still competing in his eyes, clashing like opposing tides. It takes a minute for him to speak. “What were we drawing?”

Mark blinks. He’d expected a harder question. “You mean, for the pancake art?”

Ethan nods, taking a bite of his omelette. “Was it just, like, shapes, or was it actual designs?” He doesn’t sound skeptical, per se, just curious.

Like he’s trying to determine if Mark is lying.

“Um. It was cartoon characters, actually,” Mark says. “We drew Courage the cowardly dog, Squidward, and … fuck, it’s been forever since I watched — ” He picks up his phone on instinct, meaning to look it up, but he quickly remembers the video simply doesn’t exist here. “ — uh. I can’t remember the third one. That video’s, like, three years old by now. Or it would be, I guess.”

“That sounds fun,” Ethan says simply. He eats a couple more bites of food as Mark watches, trying desperately to get a read on whether he’s making progress or not. “All the stuff you talked about last night — the Markiplier Makes videos, the tour, that second channel — it sounds so fun.”

“It was — is,” Mark insists, leaning forward over the table a bit. Ethan’s gaze flits back up to meet his, still infuriatingly neutral. “And a lot of it was fun because of you. _You,_ Ethan. I would see comments on almost every one of my collab videos asking why you weren’t a part of it, why I didn’t post more stuff with you in it — hell, that’s part of the reason I wanted to do Unus Annus with you. I’ve worked with plenty of other YouTubers, okay, I’m fucking _Markiplier,_ but with you, it’s different. We just … click.”

Biting his lip, Mark sets down his silverware and takes a risk. He reaches across the narrow table and rests a careful hand on Ethan’s forearm. Ethan tenses at first, glancing down at the point of contact, but he relaxes into it after a few heartbeats.

With a nervous gulp, Mark asks softly, “Don’t you feel it? At all?”

“Yes.” Ethan answers without hesitation, his voice steady, and Mark’s heart gives a hopeful lurch. “Mark, from the moment I shook your hand, I had a feeling that we were … I dunno, meant to meet? I’ve kinda always felt that, which is why I tried so hard to get your attention at PAX twice, but it didn’t happen. Somewhere in the back of my mind, though, I had this weird, like, _certainty_ that someday you’d at least know my name.”

Mark feels like he might vibrate out of the booth with nerves at that. He opens his mouth to ask _Have you really always felt that way? Did you ever have vivid dreams of making videos with me? Do you believe in destiny?_ But before he can speak, Ethan heaves a deep sigh and continues.

“Everything you’ve told me about the life I supposedly live in your ‘universe’ or ‘timeline’ or whatever just sounds … impossible to me. How could I have gotten lucky enough, in _any_ universe, to not only meet you, but move to L.A. to work with you and become your best friend? It just doesn’t — my brain can’t physically process that idea. But you seem to know so much about me and these stories you’re telling are so fucking detailed and I can _tell_ when I watch your face that you believe every word you’re saying, so like … fuck.”

Mark takes his hand off Ethan’s arm as Ethan rests his elbows on the table and runs both hands through his own hair. He looks genuinely tortured, his head and heart dueling fervently to tell him what to believe, and Mark aches for him.

He gives Ethan a minute to calm down a little, then asks, “What can I say or do to make you a hundred percent certain I’m telling the truth?”

Ethan looks up at him again, yearning for something he clearly can’t name. “Y-You mean there’s more?” he asks incredulously.

“Well, yeah. I’ve known you for three and a half years.” Mark is aware the rest of his breakfast is going to go cold at this rate, but he doesn’t care. “I know how ticklish you are and I could have you crumpled in a giggly mess on the floor with one finger if I wanted to. I know you want to be more confident in life, and you want that _very_ badly. I know your shoe size, your shirt size, and your sweatpants size. I know you can dance gracefully without really trying, and you’re stronger than you look. One of the only things I don’t know is where you went to high school — I can never remember that — but I _do_ know that if you’d gone to college, it would’ve been for film editing or production. Oh, and your birthday. I’m so awful at birthdays.”

Shrugging, Mark leans back in his booth and crosses his arms over his chest — partially to seem nonchalant, and partially in self-defense. “I’m not saying I know everything about you, because I don’t, and I probably never will. But does any of that make a difference?”

Ethan considers for a long moment. The doubt in his eyes is getting less and less prominent, but there hasn’t been an explosion of “oh my god this is real” yet. “We know each other pretty well, then,” he says eventually.

Mark nods, a little confused. “Um. Yeah, dude, that’s what I’ve been — ”

“How well?”

“ … What do you mean?”

“I mean, like. Have I told you … personal things I wouldn’t tell other people? Like, say, my parents?”

Mark looks at Ethan. Ethan looks right back. Mark squints, tilts his head, and sends up a quick prayer that he’s reading this correctly. “Are you asking me if I know things about your sex life?”

Ethan doesn’t answer. He just raises one eyebrow, expectant.

“Oookay.” Mark knows he’s probably starting to blush, but he keeps talking. If this is what it takes … “I don’t know _everything,_ obviously, but I know some things. Like … I know about Abigail.”

Ethan’s eyes widen slightly.

“And the tent.”

“ … How the _fuck_ — ”

“And the sleeping bag. And her younger brother barging in — ”

“Alright, _alright,_ stop, stop!” Ethan covers his reddened face with his hands and hunches his shoulders, bowing over the table in shame.

As amusing as this spectacle is, Mark keeps his sights on his end goal. “You told me that story during one of our first Unus Annus videos. And, to be clear, I told you mine, too.”

Ethan sits up, slow and shell-shocked, and drags his hands down his face. He fixes Mark with an awestruck gaze and, after a good ten seconds of silence, he starts nodding. “Okay,” he breathes.

Mark’s optimism surges against its dam. “Okay what?” Does he even dare to hope?

Ethan drops his hands onto his lap and shrugs, helpless. “Okay, I believe you.”

* * *

The drive to Ethan’s apartment after breakfast feels almost dreamlike to Mark — partially because of the sleep deprivation, and partially because he _finally did it._ After almost three days of borderline hopelessness, he’s finally convinced Ethan he’s telling the truth, and it feels so good. It’s hard to focus on following Ethan’s car in traffic when the only thought running through his head is _He believes me he believes me I might actually have a chance._

Then again. Belief is only the first step, Mark knows — the whole falling-in-love bit still has to happen. And while Mark feels marginally more confident now that it will, he refuses to get his own hopes up by being naïve. Six and a half days is all the time he has left, and Ethan still doesn’t know the _whole_ story. Mark has no idea if explaining the amulet and the time limit will help his case or hurt it, but Ethan should probably be made aware of it.

He should really know about the romance shit, too, now more than ever, but. Mark just doesn’t know where to begin with that. Right now, he just wants to enjoy the fact that he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. He can finally be more like Mark, Ethan’s best friend, instead of just Markiplier.

They park in front of Ethan’s building and trudge up the stairs, both of them stuffed with breakfast food and a little twitchy from the new energy between them. Ethan grunts and curses a bit as he rams his shoulder against the stubborn apartment door, stumbling as it finally opens. “My least favorite part of living here is the old-ass doors,” he mutters, stepping inside ahead of Mark. “Please tell me I live somewhere nicer where you’re from.”

The casual, almost joking way Ethan says that throws Mark off for a couple seconds. But he’d told Ethan he’d answer any and all of his questions, so he recovers quickly. “Yeah,” he says as he kicks off his shoes and hangs his jacket on the back of the door. “You live in a townhouse, actually. You’re a little closer to the city than I am, but we’re still only like twenty minutes away from each other.”

“God,” Ethan whispers. When Mark turns to face him, he’s leaning against the counter in the kitchenette with a spellbound expression on his face. Something in his eyes is almost wistful, though, like he’s trying to remember this other life Mark’s describing. “I just can’t imagine that. I’ve never been farther west than, like, Chicago.”

“It’s a really nice place.” Mark hesitates for a moment before walking over to stand beside Ethan. Their shoulders brush as Mark rests against the counter, surreptitiously studying Ethan’s face in his periphery as he continues. “You rent it with one of your best friends named Kathryn. She’s also one of my former editors — when you moved out to L.A., the two of you hit it off pretty quick. Oh, and you have pets.”

Ethan’s head snaps around at that. He looks at Mark with wonder in his oceanic eyes — a welcome replacement for the skepticism from earlier. “Really?”

Mark nods, biting his lip as he tries not to stare at Ethan’s slowly-growing smile. “She has a cat named Marzipan,” he explains, “and you, um. You have a dog.”

“I do?” Ethan’s smiling now, but it’s laced with melancholy. “What kind is it, what’s its name?”

“His name is Spencer,” Mark says, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat at the thought of the sweet pup. “He’s an Australian Shepherd mix and he’s, like, the perfect dog for you. We’ve even included him in a few videos for Unus Annus, ‘cuz he and Chica are … they’re best friends.”

The _just like us_ goes unsaid. Mark clears his throat and looks down at his feet, his heart aching as he thinks back to how excited Ethan had been to finally have a dog of his own. He’d been planning to get one for years, and when he’d come across Spencer after the last leg of the You’re Welcome Tour, well. It hadn’t taken much longer than a couple seconds for him to completely win Ethan over.

Mark tries not to think about where the dog could be now, without Ethan to love him.

“Spencer.” Ethan murmurs the name reverently, as if speaking it will make the pup appear. “He sounds awesome. I’ve wanted my own dog forever, but I haven’t been able to find a livable apartment in my price range that allows them.”

Mark nods in understanding, a familiar guilt building up in his chest. The conversation dies off after that, both men silently reminiscing — one about a life lost, the other about a life that had never even happened.

They end up on the living room couch, still shoulder-to-shoulder. Ethan hooks up a laptop to his TV and the two of them embark on a half-hearted YouTube deep dive. The energy between them is slowly growing more and more familiar, even though Mark catches Ethan staring at him curiously from the corner of his eye every ten minutes or so. Part of him still feels like an intruder in a stranger’s life — he does still know far more about Ethan than Ethan knows about him — but the other, more naïve part wants to believe things feel good, and right, and almost _normal._ Mark is comfortable enough here, in Ethan’s home, curled up on a well-worn couch at Ethan’s side, but the reptilian voice of doubt in the back of his mind keeps hissing at him and reminding him that he still has a long, _long_ way to go.

As random videos play in the background, Mark becomes a question-answering machine, spewing out random little facts and anecdotes as Ethan asks him things. He tells Ethan more about the tour, about the videos he’s been a part of, and about Unus Annus. That channel becomes the focus of many of Ethan’s questions — he asks about the inspiration behind it (“You said we came up with the idea at a _Buffalo Wild Wings?_ ”), the craziest things they’ve done for it (“What the fuck is ‘goat yoga’?”), and the logistics of the whole thing (“How do we even have time to do all that shit and keep our own channels going?”). Mark hadn’t expected the younger man to be this enthusiastic to learn about his alternate life, given how hard it had been for him to wrap his head around it at first. However, Mark definitely prefers this enthusiasm over something like despair, or anger, or fear.

Ethan’s personal life comes up at one point, and Mark tells him about Mika with a pit in his stomach. She and Ethan had split up not long before Mark and Amy had, but unlike Mark’s breakup, Ethan’s had been much less mutual. He explains in stilted sentences how Ethan had discovered Mika was cheating on him in mid-September, which had led to Ethan staying over at Mark’s place for a few days so Mark could keep an eye on him. He’d seen Ethan at low points over the years, but never _that_ low.

“You brought Spencer over and slept in my guest room for a good week,” Mark explains softly, like Ethan is an amnesiac who needs to be reminded of these events. Ethan listens to him speak with a neutral expression, his head pillowed by one of his arms resting on the back of the couch. “It was awful. You’d wake up crying at night and when I’d get up to check on you, you’d yell at me to leave you alone. But I never did. I’d just sit next to you and … and hold you, and talk to you until you’d fall back asleep.”

Mark breaks their eye contact to look down at the threadbare blanket draped over both their laps. It’s weird talking about the affectionate side of their friendship when this Ethan’s only hugged him a couple times. He plucks at the hem of the blanket with unsteady fingers and sighs. “You really loved her,” he says, the memory bitter in his mind. “But she fucked you up for awhile.”

“Sounds like it.” Ethan’s silent for a few seconds, taking everything in, before he reaches out to nudge Mark’s knee. “But it also sounds like I had a great friend to help me get through it.”

That makes Mark look up again. When he sees the fond, grateful expression on Ethan’s face, he feels himself blush. “Well, y’know. You would’ve done the same thing for me,” he says with a bashful shrug, trying to brush it off. He doesn’t think he can properly explain the grief he’d felt for Ethan during that time, or how much it had hurt to see him so desolate and hopeless. His own complicated feelings aside, Mark had wanted nothing more than to strip every ounce of unhappiness out of Ethan’s life and absorb it into his own, if only to see his best friend smile again.

Yes, the thought of “kissing it better” had arisen more than Mark would like to admit. But even after his own split with Amy, Mark had resisted making a move for fear that Ethan still wasn’t ready for a new relationship. Despite the increasing frequency of longing looks and lingering touches between them for the last few months, Ethan had never made a clear indication that he wanted to change the nature of their friendship like that. Mark had been determined to follow Ethan’s lead, which only led to his (admittedly less-than-subtle) pining getting worse and worse. He’d known it would be a huge step for both of them, and it would likely change Unus Annus and their own channels drastically. But the closer they got, and the more tempting Ethan’s fake flirting became, the less Mark began to care about the practicality of it.

In fact, Mark had almost been ready to take the leap when The Fight happened, and he’d wound up in a parallel dimension.

He doesn’t explain all this to Ethan, but he does reveal the fact that he and Amy had also broken up. Ethan nods in understanding, even though he looks surprised. “Yeah, I remember thinking it was weird when you called her your ex last night,” he says, soft and contemplative. Biting his lip, he tilts his head a bit in an achingly familiar gesture that makes Mark want … so many things. “What happened? You don’t have to tell me, obviously, I just … I dunno. You guys always seemed so happy.”

Mark just shrugs again. “People change. Feelings change. And we knew it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to stay together when we weren’t both fully invested.” He shakes his head in silent awe, remembering the sheer grace Amy had shown through the whole thing despite how unexpected it was. “I still think she’s incredible, though. She was even incredible here, when I woke up next to her in a room I didn’t recognize, in the middle of a life I hadn’t lived. She listened to everything I had to say and believed me almost right away.”

Their kiss in the airport flickers through Mark’s memory, and his heart pangs. “Telling her I wasn’t who she thought I was, that I didn’t have the same feelings for her that _her_ Mark did … it was like breaking up with her all over again.”

“Wait. So she believed you, accepted that you weren’t her actual boyfriend, and then … let you fly out to Maine? To find _me?”_ Ethan looks truly baffled now. “Why?”

Mark bites his lip, considering his answer. This is the perfect opening to tell Ethan the rest of his fucked-up Disney story, but. It just isn’t the right time. Not yet. “I explained to her how important you are to me, and how finding you was the only way I could set things right.” He’s reminded of that damn amulet, cocooned in its velvet box in his jacket pocket across the room. “So she helped me find your address and get a flight, and … now here I am.”

“Huh.” The gears turn louder. Ethan doesn’t say anything else, though; he just turns back to the TV and watches the rest of the random Vsauce video Mark had selected fifteen minutes ago. Mark can’t help but study Ethan’s face in his periphery, trying to decipher what the younger man is thinking. For some reason, this Ethan is proving to be harder to read than the one Mark is used to.

Halfway through the next video, Mark finds himself struggling to keep his eyes open. The sleep he’s lost over the past few nights is finally biting him in the ass, it seems. _Surprised it’s taken this long._

He powers through for another ten minutes until he feels his cheek hit Ethan’s bony shoulder. “Shit,” he mutters, forcing himself to sit up straighter. “‘M sorry.” Every part of him wants to lean back into Ethan’s warmth, his foreign but familiar scent, but he resists.

Ethan turns to look at him, and his blue-green eyes flood with understanding. Something like fondness might be glowing there, too, but that could just be the wishful thinking of Mark’s exhausted brain.

“You can sleep, dude,” Ethan says. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

“Said I’m fine.” Mark doesn’t know why he’s being stubborn about this. There’s a wisp of a smile playing on Ethan’s lips that’s making him even sleepier, but he doesn’t want to sleep. It would only be wasting what little time he has left. “Jus’ need some more coffee.”

“No, you need a fucking _nap.”_

And that’s that, apparently. Not thirty seconds later, Mark has a warm, strong arm wrapped around him and a steady heartbeat thrumming in his ear. He quickly becomes curled up against Ethan, his head tucked in the crook of Ethan’s neck and his knees resting against Ethan’s thigh. There’s a gentle hand carding through his unruly hair, lulling him perfectly while a blanket is pulled up over his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Ethan murmurs somewhere in the distance as Mark’s heavy eyelids slip closed and finally refuse to open again. “I’ve got you. Just rest.”

The sensations of being so close to Ethan, held so safely in his arms, are like a shot of melatonin straight to the brain. Incapable of doing anything else, Mark grasps at the front of Ethan’s hoodie with clumsy fingers and relaxes.

* * *

Mark wakes up slowly to the faint sound of music. He has no clue how much time has passed — for a few seconds, he doesn’t even remember where he is — but the lingering smell of Ethan’s mild cologne keeps him calm. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand, he pushes himself up off the couch with the other —

— and realizes he’s alone.

It takes another few seconds for Mark to notice the throw pillow his head had been resting on. As he sits fully upright, the blanket he and Ethan had been sharing falls from his shoulders. Ethan must’ve …

 _Fuck._ Mark’s heart can’t take much more of this. With a shaky exhale, he scoops up a corner of the blanket and buries his face in it, momentarily overwhelmed. _This_ is the kind of shit that made Mark fall for Ethan in the first place, and the kind of shit he’d rather die than lose. He revels in it, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing it in like he’ll never get another chance to.

“Oh, hey.” Ethan’s chipper voice snaps Mark out of his reverie. “Didn’t see you wake up.”

Mark lets go of the blanket and looks towards the kitchenette, where Ethan is puttering around with a pair of lobster tails in his hands. Mark chuckles at the sight, which only makes Ethan smile wider. “I’ve only been awake for a minute,” the older man replies, standing up from the couch and stretching his arms over his head. Miraculously, he feels well-rested. “Comfy couch you got here.”

“Yeah, well. Glad you like it — you’ve been out for three hours,” Ethan says as he turns away to fiddle with a dial on his oven. “Sorry I couldn’t be your pillow for longer. My neck started to hurt.”

Mark just smiles, hoping the genuine fondness swelling in his chest shows on his face. “You were a great pillow. I’m honored to have rested upon you, for however short a time.”

Something that looks suspiciously like a blush is blooming on Ethan’s cheeks now. “No need to get all Shakespearean about it,” he mumbles, but he’s still grinning. “You were exhausted. If I hadn’t made you rest, you would’ve collapsed an hour later.”

“You’re probably right.”

Mark shuffles over to the kitchenette with a yawn, arms wrapped around himself against the slight chill in the room. He finally sees where the music is coming from — there’s a Bluetooth speaker on the window ledge above the sink. Something acoustic is playing, but it isn’t a guitar. “You still play ukulele in this universe?” he asks, trying to use a half-joking tone.

It must work, because Ethan chuckles a little and nods. “Yeah, sometimes,” he says as he pulls a pair of kitchen shears out of a drawer. “People ask me to sing on my Twitch streams, but I don’t do those a whole lot.” He picks up one of the thawed lobster tails he’s set on a lined baking sheet and, with the confidence of someone who’s done it a thousand times, starts cutting the red-brown shell in half.

“Ooo, fancy schmancy lunch, huh?” Mark tries to cover his wince at the sickening _cracks_ of the shell with a silly voice. “What happened to mac and cheese?”

Ethan shrugs one shoulder, his gaze still fixed on his task. “I’ve had these in my freezer for a week now. Figured I might as well treat alternate-universe Markiplier to some Maine lobster at least once.” He pauses, glancing up at Mark for a moment. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, right?”

Mark shakes his head and leans back against the counter, watching Ethan’s nimble fingers work. “Nope. I don’t think I’ve ever had lobster, though,” he admits. “At least not any this fresh.”

“If you think week-old lobster tails are fresh, you’ve definitely gotta spend more time in Maine,” Ethan says as he carefully arranges the meat of the tail on top of the shell without disconnecting it. “My dad probably would’ve thrown these out by now.”

Mark watches in silent fascination as Ethan swipes his fingers through a small tub of what looks like butter and slathers the meat in it. He’s always admired Ethan’s hands, how precise and strong yet gentle and sometimes klutzy they can be. Seeing them working so skillfully — and all greased up, too — sparks images in Mark’s filthy mind that he’d rather not linger on right now. The movements are almost hypnotic; before Mark knows what’s happened, both lobster tails are perfectly prepared and Ethan’s washing his deft hands at the sink.

Ethan laughs again at Mark’s stunned expression, and he’s _still_ blushing. “Hungry?” he asks, amusement sparking in his riptide eyes. “Or are you just impressed by my chef skills?”

“I-I’ve just never seen you make lobster before,” Mark replies after regaining control of his tongue. It’s _a_ truth, not _the_ truth, but Mark sticks with it. “It’s, like, kind of a running joke on my channel that you’re horrible at cooking. But when you’re making something you’re familiar with, you’re … uh. Not horrible.”

“I … think that’s a compliment,” Ethan says as he puts the tails in the oven and sets the timer. “So I’ll take it.”

Now that the food’s taken care of, Ethan seems to relax a bit. He strides over to Mark and leans against the counter beside him, their arms brushing closely. His warmth alone is enough to make Mark want to —

As if on cue, a new song starts playing from the Bluetooth speaker. It takes a second for Mark to recognize it, but when he does, he just … can’t resist anymore.

It’s time for his actions to speak.

Mark’s movements are confident, but his stomach and heart flutter nervously as he pushes himself away from the counter and takes one of Ethan’s hands in his own. Before he can talk himself out of it, he gently tugs Ethan closer and wraps his other arm loosely around Ethan’s waist. Ethan’s eyes widen in surprise and confusion but he doesn’t pull away, which Mark takes as tentative permission to keep going.

“Um. ” Still clearly befuddled, Ethan grips Mark’s bicep with his free hand and starts to sway when Mark does. His cheeks are a wonderful shade of blazing pink and he seems to be having trouble maintaining eye contact, constantly glancing at a spot over Mark’s left shoulder. “W-We’re dancing now?”

“I guess.” Mark keeps his gaze fixed on Ethan’s flustered face, trying to read his thoughts in the nervous twitch of his lips. His own heart is pounding loudly in his ears; in the back of his mind, he hopes his palm doesn’t start to sweat where it’s pressed to Ethan’s. “Is it — I mean, do you mind?”

Ethan shakes his head immediately. “No!” God, but he’s cute like this, face red and hair flopping down over his eyes. He flicks his head to the side once to clear his vision. “I don’t mind, I just … Why? Are we dancing?”

Mark heaves a deep sigh and pulls Ethan just a little closer, unsure of how to respond. Because there’s no subtle way to tell someone you can’t physically keep from touching them anymore, he eventually settles on, “Because I wanted to. And you let me.”

Ethan’s eyes lock with his and they don’t look away and _god,_ it’s becoming harder and harder for Mark to catch his breath. It’s not like he’s never been this close to Ethan — he’s seen the guy naked, for fuck’s sake — but here, in this little kitchen with the afternoon sun pouring in through the nearby window, it just feels different.

The song’s chorus comes around again and Mark hums along for a few bars: “ _Honey, you’re familiar / Like my mirror years ago / Idealism sits in prison … ”_

“Do we dance together a lot where you’re from?” Ethan asks. His voice is soft and breathy, like he’s trying not to hyperventilate. The warm hand on Mark’s arm tightens its grip.

Mark responds by slowly lacing the fingers of their joined hands together. He can’t help but stare at the point of contact, marveling at the way their skin tones complement each other. “We did once. But it was a salsa and I was terrible at it. You were a fuckin’ natural, though.”

Ethan chuckles, soft and light, like the way his thumb is brushing over Mark’s. “Was I?”

“Oh yeah. The instructor lady loved you.” “ _Babe / There’s something broken about this / But I might be hoping about this / Oh, what a sin … ”_ “I just couldn’t manage the smooth movements, but they came so easily to you. You totally upstaged me. I think I compared you to a ribbon?”

“Wow, I actually upstaged the Great and Perfect Markiplier? Incredible!”

“Hey, okay, don’t get too cocky about it. I held you _over my head_ without dropping you, and you couldn’t even get me off the ground.”

“Well _obviously_ I couldn’t, you’re a fucking … brick shithouse of muscle. I lift heavy shit at work, sure, but I can barely move the desk in my recording room without help.”

“I find that hard to believe. But hey, you did dip me at one point. I’d already fallen on my ass once and I would have again if you didn’t catch me.”

“I dipped you?” Ethan’s eyes are bright with curiosity and something else Mark can’t identify.

“Mm-hmm. Not as smoothly as the instructor was expecting, I think, but you did.”

“Show me.”

 _“Innocence died screaming / Honey, ask me, I should know … ”_ “ … Alright.”

Loosening his hold around Ethan’s waist, Mark takes a step back and raises their joined hands above their heads. Ethan takes the cue and spins once, fluid and beautiful, like it’s as natural as breathing to him. Mark almost wants to ask him to do it again.

_“I slithered here from Eden … ”_

He catches Ethan with a sturdy arm braced behind his back. Ethan squeezes Mark’s arm but doesn’t falter, his gaze steady and trusting as he lets Mark slowly lower him down towards the linoleum floor. Mark moves with him, tipping forwards at the waist as Ethan tips back, and suddenly their faces are only inches apart.

This close, Mark can count the freckles on the bridge of Ethan’s nose. He stares into the depths of Ethan’s blue-green-hazel eyes, watching his pupils dilate slightly, and seriously considers leaning in further. It would be so easy — like falling into a pool of still water — ands he wants to give in _so fucking badly._

But.

Today has already been insane. Mark’s told Ethan so much about his alternate life, about their friendship, and it must have been a lot to take in in just a few hours. They’re both physically and emotionally exhausted; dropping an even heavier bomb on Ethan now wouldn’t be kind, despite the time constraint Mark is fighting against.

Still. Mark watches Ethan glance at his mouth twice, and it only makes him want it more.

He’s about three seconds away from giving in when Ethan clears his throat and starts to straighten. Mark blinks a couple times and leans back, still not letting go of Ethan’s hand or the small of his back. The still-brilliant blush on Ethan’s cheeks and the shy smile on his (pink, wet, kissable, fuckable) lips is enough to keep him from pulling away just yet.

“Y-You did it a lot smoother,” Mark stammers after a moment, desperate to break the silence. “And I was a lot sweatier, but. It went something like that.”

Ethan nods, squeezing Mark’s hand once. “I wish I could remember it,” he murmurs. Something in his expression changes, casting an almost sad shadow over his flushed face.

 _So do I,_ Mark thinks, his chest aching. He’s about to say something wistful when the oven timer beeps, making him jump.

“Oh, shit — ” Ethan lets go of Mark’s hand and steps away, bolting over to the oven. “That definitely wasn’t eighteen minutes, _fuck,_ I set it wrong.”

Snapped out of his amorous mood, Mark laughs a bit and shakes his head at Ethan fondly. His pulse is still racing, but he manages a casual voice when he says, “Trying to poison me with undercooked seafood?”

“No, I’m just an idiot,” Ethan replies with a giggle as he punches in the correct time and hits “START.” “It should be ready in ten-ish minutes. D’you wanna help me make the sauce?”

A minute later, Mark finds himself mixing salt, lemon juice, and olive oil in a small bowl while Ethan chops some fresh herbs. They work shoulder-to-shoulder, exchanging glances and little smiles every few seconds, but there’s a new tension in the air between them. It doesn’t feel bad or dangerous, just … new. Mark recognizes it immediately — it’s the same tension he’d felt with his Ethan for the past month as they’d continued to circle around each other, slowly getting closer and closer to colliding. Something about it feels different, though, and Mark can’t place it yet.

Is it the fact that this Ethan isn’t still rebuilding his ability to trust after being cheated on? Is it the lingering idol-fan dynamic? Is it Ethan’s increasingly obvious curiosity about the full nature of their relationship in Mark’s timeline? Any and all of these factors could be contributing to the sparks that crackle every time the back of Mark’s hand brushes Ethan’s forearm.

Once Ethan’s herbs have been added to Mark’s bowl and the oven timer has gone off again, things feel a little more normal. Ethan plates the impressive lobster tails and hands Mark one, chattering excitedly about how eager he is to see Mark taste proper Maine lobster for the first time. They move back to the living room and sit cross-legged across from each other on either side of the coffee table, taking the sauce and a couple glasses of water with them.

Unsurprisingly, the lobster is fantastic. Ethan glows with pride when Mark starts scarfing it down and scraping the inside of the shell to get every last scrap of meat onto his fork. The meal doesn’t last nearly as long as Mark would like, but it’s delicious, and seeing Ethan beaming at him while he eats makes up for it. They make random small talk for a little while until Ethan gets up to bring the dishes to the sink.

When he returns to the couch, his expression has morphed into something more serious. Mark feels the tips of his ears heat up and bites his lip as he watches Ethan sit back down. “What’s up?” he asks, mentally going over everything they’d talked about during lunch in case he’d said something wrong.

Ethan heaves a deep sigh and meets Mark’s eyes, an unreadable emotion swirling in his own. “There’s still one thing you haven’t really told me about,” he murmurs, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands in a familiar nervous gesture.

Just like that, the atmosphere between them shifts completely. “I know.” Mark swallows hard and runs a hand through his own hair, trying to shift his mindset into the right place for this conversation. He’s pretty certain he knows what Ethan’s talking about, because it’s one of the few topics he hasn’t broached yet and the only one Ethan could have noticed being avoided. After a few seconds, Mark nods once. “Go ahead, you can ask.”

“How are you supposed to get back to where you’re from?” Ethan looks like he’s afraid to know the answer, but desperate to anyway. “And what happens if … you don’t?”

Several options lie before Mark now. He could tell Ethan the whole truth, sparing no details, and hope the younger man doesn’t think he’s insane or a pervert (or both). He could tell Ethan a _version_ of the truth, leaving out the romance and amulet details but giving him enough information to be satisfied for today. Or, he could lie, saying he isn’t sure exactly how it’ll work but he knows Ethan is part of it.

On one hand, Mark is terrified of ruining the rapport he’s established with Ethan thus far. But on the other, he’s just so fucking tired of beating around the bush.

Something’s gotta give at some point. Mark doesn’t have much time left.

“Well.” Clearing his throat, Mark shifts on the couch so he and Ethan are fully facing each other. He crosses his legs and fiddles with a loose thread hanging off one of his socks, heart in his throat and blood rushing in his ears. _Just get it over with,_ he berates himself. He isn’t sure where to start. “Remember how I said last night that I, um. I-I got here after you and I had a fight? And that I wished for something I didn’t really want?”

Ethan nods slowly, watching Mark with an intent gaze. Mark looks down at his own lap.

“It got nasty,” he explains. “The fight, I mean. Maybe we were both mad for valid reasons, maybe we weren’t; I don’t know anymore. But we both said things we didn’t mean, a-and I … ”

 _God._ The weight of Ethan’s stare, the heat of his body so close to Mark’s, the barely-there rasp of his breathing … Mark doesn’t think he can say it. It hurt so badly the first time he did; saying it again to a version of Ethan that isn’t even angry at him is just. Impossible.

Fortunately — or perhaps unfortunately — Ethan puts it all together himself. “You wished we’d never met,” he whispers as the realization hits him. “Didn’t you.”

It’s not a question. The tone of Ethan’s voice is so close to disappointment that it makes Mark’s face burn with shame more than sadness. He nods, silent and resigned, because it’s all he can do.

Neither of them says anything for a minute. Mark keeps his eyes fixed on his hands in his lap, waiting for the inevitable moment Ethan gets up and tells him to leave. Their friendship in Mark’s timeline, as far as Ethan knows, is full of laughter and happiness and mutual support and respect — all completely incongruous to what had been said during that fight. There’s nothing Mark can do to make him understand why he’d wished for such an awful thing, because he doesn’t even understand why himself.

And yet, that very question arises next as Ethan breaks the heavy silence: “Why? What — Did I do something wrong?”

“Yes and no,” Mark says after some thought. The memory of Ethan’s typical forgetfulness seems so inconsequential in hindsight — he’d give absolutely anything to have a shared channel for Ethan to periodically neglect now. “Look, it doesn’t matter now. I blew up at you over something stupid and ended up ruining both our lives without meaning to, because — in your words — I’m a selfish asshole who sucks the joy and creativity out of everyone I work with.”

Mark’s throat tightens and he feels the all-too-familiar burn of tears. “Fuck,” he mutters angrily, squeezing his eyes shut in defiance of his own emotions. He’s so sick of crying.

Ethan is quiet for another minute or two after that. Mark sniffles a few times and fights the ever-growing instinct to flee, terrified of what Ethan must think of him now. _You chose the wrong guy to idolize, bud,_ he thinks bitterly. _And definitely the wrong guy to befriend._ Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he waits out the pause, hoping against hope that Ethan will still want him around after this.

A warm hand on his knee makes Mark glance up in confusion. Ethan’s looking at him with a gentle, understanding expression, his eyes kind and lips slightly upturned. “I don’t think you’re a selfish asshole,” he says, and the words seep into Mark’s skin like salve on a wound. “Friends have arguments and say hurtful things they don’t mean all the time — the consequences are just usually much less dire than getting sent to an alternate universe. I don’t need to know what ‘other me’ said to you, or what else you said to him, because you’re right — it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is getting you back where you belong, and setting things right. So.”

Ethan pats Mark’s knee once before sitting up straight again and letting out a deep breath. “Back to my original question — how do we do it?”

Mark can’t answer at first — partially because he still isn’t sure how to, and partially because he’s blown away by Ethan’s selflessness. His use of “we” doesn’t go unnoticed, and Mark can’t fathom how Ethan could be so ready and willing to help someone he should still consider a _stranger_ without caring what might happen to himself.

_Guess that’s just another part of him that’s constant in every universe._

But Mark still can’t bring himself to reveal the full truth yet. It would just be too much too soon. Instead, he decides to focus on two-thirds of it. Forcing himself to shake off the wave of adoration he’d been momentarily swept up in, he says, “I guess the first thing you need to know is I only have a little over six days left.”

“ … Okay.” Ethan sounds a bit more concerned than before, but not put off. Yet.

“And the second thing — ” Mark stands up from the couch and jogs across the room to retrieve the velvet box from his jacket pocket. _Here goes nothing._ “ — is that my wish was granted by this enchanted amulet, and every night at midnight one of its stones turns black to rub in my face how many days have passed.”

Just as Mark expects, he doesn’t get much of a reaction from Ethan after that. He plows on, though, sitting back down across from him on the couch and opening the box. The amulet lies on a smooth white cushion, unassuming and innocent, but Mark can feel its energy without even directly touching it. He holds the box out to Ethan, hoping this isn’t the breaking point in the other man’s trust.

The skeptical squint Ethan aims at the necklace is almost comical. Glancing between it and Mark, he cautiously takes the box and brings it closer to his face. He studies the amulet closely, running his fingertips over the giant amethyst in the middle before tracing the smaller blue and red stones around it. He stops at the blackened ones.

“This really is a movie plot, isn’t it?” he whispers finally.

“You’re telling me,” Mark replies. “I didn’t believe it at first, either, but I swear it’s real. I got it from the metaphysical shop we filmed at the day we … the day I made the wish, and I visited the same shop the morning I woke up here. The owner told me the blue and red stones represent you and me — I’m red, you’re blue.”

“Hmm.” Ethan’s fingers return to the amethyst and linger there. He looks back up at Mark, his gaze searching. “I’m guessing the biggest stone being purple is significant, then.”

Trying desperately not to blush, Mark nods. “Yeah. The shop owner told me it symbolizes that we, um … need each other to live our ‘most fulfilling’ lives, or something.”

Ethan’s skeptical frown deepens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

There’s no easy way to say this, so Mark doesn’t even try to make it easy. “Look at our lives right now, Ethan,” he says, gesturing around the small living space around them. “You live in a cheap apartment in your hometown and you’re still working at a restaurant on top of making videos. I’m burnt out and stuck in a stagnant relationship and I just _quit YouTube._ Almost every great project I’ve ever been proud of never happened here, and it’s because _you_ weren’t around to make them happen. In a similar vein, all the milestones you reached with your channel never happened here because … ”

Mark trails off, not wanting to say it outright. Ethan understands pretty quickly, though. “Because _you_ never swooped in to rescue me?” He’s sounding less curious and more bitter by the second.

“I didn’t rescue you — you didn’t need saving,” Mark insists. He can’t fuck this part up. “All I did was give you a shot to really show what you’re made of and the platform you needed to do it. And it _worked._ As soon as you got the audience you deserved, your channel exploded, and you started making all the great stuff you couldn’t before. Ethan … you hit a million last month.”

He says it like it’s a secret, like it’s dangerous information, and in some ways maybe it is. Ethan could either crave the successful life Mark’s describing, or resent it for not coming naturally to him.

It turns out to be a blend of the two. Ethan’s eyes go wide with wonder at the mention of one million subscribers, but when he glances back down at the amulet, that wonder fades. It’s replaced by anger and frustration, and he snaps the velvet box shut, shoving it back into Mark’s hands. “If the way to fix your problem is getting me to admit I can’t be successful on my own or making me _beg_ for my ‘most fulfilling’ life back, it’s not fucking happening.” He stands up suddenly, towering over Mark with his hands clenched into stubborn fists at his sides while Mark gapes at him. “I don’t care that I have a townhouse in Los Angeles and a dog and a million subscribers where you come from if people think you’re the only reason I got them. What I have here, I _earned. Myself._ Without needing to ride the coattails of someone more famous than me. I work my fucking _ass_ off every fucking day just to get by, but it’s worth it.”

Mark takes a breath to respond, desperate to try and get this train back on the rails, but Ethan’s one determined conductor. “If my options are a life where I get famous for being associated with you, or a life where I’m not famous but my success is completely my own, there’s no competition,” he practically snarls, turning away and storming off towards his bedroom. The door slams behind him, drowning out Mark’s pleading call of his name.

In that moment, Mark fears he’s lost everything.

He sits there on the couch in stunned silence for a long time. The amulet is heavy and electric in his trembling hands, but he can’t let go of it. Every stride he’s made today — getting Ethan to believe him, telling him more about their friendship, dancing with him in the kitchen — none of it matters anymore if Ethan means everything he just said.

It’s something his version of Ethan has always taken issue with — the fans who only watch his videos to leave comments about Mark, or tweet him about Mark, or tell him to call Mark while he’s streaming. He’s told Mark about feeling directionless at times, like people think his only purpose is to further Mark’s reach or just be “Markiplier’s friend Ethan.” At times, it’s put a real strain on their relationship, but they’ve become pretty good at navigating that landscape over the years.

That doesn’t mean Mark’s stopped feeling guilty about it, deep down. Part of him has always wondered if Ethan would have still said yes to working for him in 2016 if he’d known how unfairly he’d be treated.

He supposes he has his answer now.

 _No. You didn’t come this far to give up so easily,_ Mark thinks to himself after awhile. When his vision focuses again, he glances at the clock on the wall near the fridge and finds that more than half an hour has gone by. _You’re wasting time. Come up with something to fix this now, or you might never talk to him again._

It’s no mistake that Mark’s always considered himself to be his own greatest motivation and loudest critic.

Praying to whoever might listen that this will work, Mark forces himself up off the couch and shuffles over to Ethan’s closed bedroom door. He raises his hand to knock, but lowers it again on second thought.

The weight of the situation comes crashing down on him all at once, and in the span of a heartbeat, Mark finds himself sitting on the hardwood floor with his back against the door. He’s still clutching the amulet, unable to resist its magnetic pull, but he wishes he could burn it to ash and sleep away the rest of his time here.

“You’re right,” Mark says, hoping Ethan doesn’t have headphones on. “Our fans where I come from have a hard time seeing us as two separate people. And it’s not just you that that’s happened to — trust me, there are others. I guess that’s what being associated with me can get you — all the success you could ever want, but none of the credit for it.”

His damn throat closes again and he clears it roughly. _Not right now._ “But,” he continues, “that’s not what I have to get you to want, if I want to get my life back.

“There’s plenty of downsides to being friends with me, I know that. I’m a workaholic, I’m egotistical, I’m stubborn, and I can definitely be selfish when I want to be. On top of that, everything my friends make is constantly compared to the stuff I make — they’re either copying me, trying to copy me, or trying to make something they think I’ll copy. But Ethan … that’s only a small fraction of what your life has been like for the past three and a half years.

“We’ve spent hours and hours together filming some of the most fun content either of us has ever made. We’ve slept over at each other’s houses after long days, and had breakfast together in the morning. We’ve traveled the fucking _world_ together, making people from dozens of cities around the globe laugh. Every day of my life since you said yes to being my editor has been better because you were in it. Every time we’ve worked on something together has been magical in its own way, even if there were disagreements in the process.

“I’ve never had a friend like you before, Ethan.” Mark’s voice finally gives out here, the lump in his throat silencing him. He fights it off as best he can. “A-And you’ve told me before you’ve never had a friend like me, either. Yeah, we drive each other fucking insane, but it’s _worth_ it. We can communicate without speaking sometimes. I can vent to you about shit no one else in my life will understand, whether it’s about content creating or my parents’ fucking divorce.

“That’s what that shop owner was talking about when she said we needed each other for a fulfilling life,” Mark concludes, vaguely proud of himself for coming up with this so quickly. Not that he doesn’t mean every word — Ethan’s friendship is incalculably precious to him — but omitting the fact that they may or may not be in love with each other is still necessary. “Our friendship is one of the most important parts of our lives, and without it, something’s always gonna be missing. Whether we know it or not. You said it yourself at the diner — even though you didn’t meet me at PAX, you still always felt like our paths would cross somehow.

“So … that’s what I have to do to fix things. I have to make you truly want a friendship like that, with me. A-And if I can’t do that in the next six days … everything resets. I forget everything about my other life, you forget any of this ever happened, and we stay like that. Lonely forever without knowing why.”

Mark sniffles quietly and looks down at the velvet box in his hands, heedless of the pair of tears rolling down his cheeks. “W-We’re better together,” he whispers, wishing he could be completely honest about just how true that is. “At least, I think we are. And I know there’s tradeoffs. I have no right to tell you how to feel about this, so I’m sorry if I have, but … I guess I rest my case here.”

When there’s no response from the other side of the bedroom door after a full minute, Mark’s sore heart sinks even further in his chest. A fresh wave of tears wells up in his eyes, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just forces himself up off the floor and heads across the room to get his jacket, intent on leaving quietly and crying himself to sleep in his cold hotel bed again.

He doesn’t make it three steps before the bedroom door creaks open.

Holding his breath, Mark stops in his tracks and listens to Ethan slowly walk up behind him. He doesn’t dare turn around — seeing the distain and anger that’s no doubt all over Ethan’s face would be too much to bear. Ethan’s probably gonna just yell at him, kick him out, and tell him he’d rather forget any of this ever happened than be trapped in Mark’s shadow forever.

But. The yelling never comes. A tentative hand comes to rest on Mark’s shoulder instead and Mark can’t help but jump at the unexpected touch. Ethan gently turns Mark around and steps closer to him, but Mark just stares at his socked feet. It takes another hand brushing his chin to make him finally look up.

Ethan’s eyes are glistening with unshed tears, and his face crumples a bit at the sight of Mark’s damp cheeks. Without a word, he grabs Mark’s wrist in a loose grip and pulls him back over to the couch. Mark goes willingly and tries not to blush with embarrassment as Ethan sits him down and starts dabbing under his eyes with a tissue.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan whispers after a minute, his gaze never leaving Mark’s face. “I overreacted.”

Mark shakes his head, sniffling once. “You didn’t, though. You’re right. Everything you have, everything you’ve done here — people know it’s yours and yours alone. As soon as I enter the picture … ”

Scoffing, Mark looks down at his hands in his lap. He’s still clutching the box and has to fight off the sudden, almost irresistible urge to fling it across the room as hard as he can. “ … everyone’s focused on me,” he finishes, spitting the words out like bitter chocolate. “And you don’t deserve that.”

Ethan just hums. Mark can’t tell if it’s a sound of agreement or not.

Once his face has been gently dried, Mark drags a hand across it and sighs, long and deep. He can feel Ethan watching him still, but he can’t bring himself to face the younger man yet. He’s too busy spiraling into hopelessness, because at this point, what else could happen besides a gentle let-down? There’s no way Ethan will want the life Mark’s described now that he knows the price he’d have to pay. The thought that this Ethan would even _consider_ wanting him as a _friend,_ let alone _fall in love_ with him, just seems more impossible to Mark now.

“Was all that true?” Ethan asks, soft and uncertain. “The stuff about how close we are, I mean?”

Mark nods and finally works up the courage to look up again. Ethan looks … awed, almost. There’s still something guarded in his eyes, though, like he’s holding himself back from something. “I told you,” Mark mutters, “you’re my best friend. I wasn’t lying.”

“And if I can’t … make myself want that, more than I want what I have now, in _six days,”_ Ethan continues, “we forget each other?”

“Yeah.” _But it’s not just my friendship you’ve gotta make yourself want. Fuck, this is actually gonna be impossible, isn’t it?_

“God.” Ethan sits back against the couch cushions and runs a shaking hand through his hair. His elbow bumps Mark’s shoulder. “That’s … a lot of pressure.”

“You’re telling me.” _Wait till you hear the rest, buddy._

The two of them sit there in silence for a few minutes, their minds racing in opposite directions. Mark tears apart a tissue like he did last night, only this time he keeps the pile contained to an empty mug on the coffee table. It’s a nerve-wracking silence, and it stretches on for far longer than Mark’s comfortable with.

After another minute of mutual contemplation and internalized panic, Ethan speaks up again. “I honestly can’t tell you if I’ll ever be willing to give up what I’ve created, Mark. Even if it means gaining you as a best friend. I — It’s hard to picture myself living a life defined by someone other than me.”

Mark’s chest burns with loss he shouldn’t even feel yet. “I know,” he whispers, glancing down at the shredded tissue in his hands again.

“But.”

Mark looks back up when Ethan’s hands slip into his, dislodging the tissue and holding on loosely. Ethan’s smiling again, light and friendly, but it only makes Mark’s heart race.

“I already feel like I’ve known you for longer than three days,” Ethan continues once he sees he has Mark’s rapt attention. His thumbs rub over Mark’s knuckles in an infuriatingly tender motion. “You’ve already seen me have a nervous breakdown, and I’m pretty sure I saw you have one last night, too. I do feel … a connection to you. So … ”

He shrugs one shoulder, and Mark holds his breath. “I think that means you’ve still got a shot at … winning me over, or whatever. I mean, we’ve got six days left. Who knows how I’ll feel by then?”

Mark studies Ethan’s face closely. He looks as sincere as he sounds, still tracing Mark’s knuckles with gentle fingertips. As badly as he wants to take what Ethan’s said and run with it, Mark forces himself to pause. “Like I said,” he insists, “I don’t wanna force you to feel something you don’t. If it doesn’t happen, it’s not like either of us will remember it.”

Ethan bites his lip and squeezes Mark’s hands tighter. “I don’t want to forget you,” he whispers, eyes wide and sad.

“I know.” Mark’s voice breaks a little along with his heart. He squeezes Ethan’s hands back. “A-And I really, _really_ don’t wanna forget you.” _But that’s just not up to me._

The two of them sit there, staring at their joined hands and trying not to think about how fucked up this whole thing is, for another minute before Ethan breaks the silence.

Of course, he chooses a ridiculous way to do it. “Did you really say I make your life ‘magical’?”

There’s a hint of laughter in his voice again, and when Mark looks up at him, he’s clearly biting back a grin. “Maybe,” Mark says, fighting off another blush. “Why, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, it’s just … sweet.” Ethan does grin then, but it’s small and fond instead of inappropriately goofy like Mark was expecting. “You — well, this universe’s version of you — aren’t really known for being sweet. At least not anymore.”

Mark wants to ask for elaboration on that, but he decides against it. “I guess I didn’t have the good influences here that I should’ve.”

“I guess not.” Ethan rests his cheek against the back of the couch, still looking at Mark. Afternoon sun beams in from the nearby bay window, just barely catching in Ethan’s eyes and turning them a mesmerizing shade of light blue-brown. He bites his lip, chewing it for a moment while he thinks; Mark catches himself staring a half-second too late.

It’s only after Ethan’s made a smarmy joke about his mouth that Mark realizes he hasn’t let go of Ethan’s hands yet.

* * *

The rest of the night is pretty uneventful. They watch some more YouTube, get some pizza delivered (Mark pays to thank Ethan for the lobster), and order a few more parts online for Ethan’s new computer that they plan on rigging up tomorrow. Ethan asks a few more questions about his life in Mark’s timeline, but that topic is mostly avoided in favor of lighthearted conversation and mindless entertainment.

Throughout it all, the spark of hope Mark has become terrified of fanning starts to burn again. If Ethan’s open to the idea of _any_ kind of meaningful relationship with him, he might still have a chance at pulling this off.

Then again, the indications that Ethan feels anything besides platonic affection towards Mark have been scant at best. Sure, there was the text complimenting his haircut yesterday. And the glance at Mark’s mouth two days ago after hugging him goodbye. And the way he’d let Mark pull him into a dance earlier without resisting. Those are all things the “other” Ethan has done, too, and that Ethan has all but admitted to liking Mark at least a little.

Still. Mark refuses to lull himself into a false sense of security before he’s absolutely sure it won’t end in devastating heartbreak for one or both of them. Which remains a distinct possibility.

Jesus, this is exhausting.

It’s past ten p.m. when Mark checks the clock again, and he immediately yawns. “Fuck,” he mumbles, rubbing his heavy-lidded eyes as he loads the last dirty plate from dinner into Ethan’s dishwasher. Even with the nap earlier, he’s bone tired. “Didn’t realize it was so late already.”

“Yeah, me neither. You should head back, get some real sleep.” Ethan’s by the couch, folding the blanket they’d shared again. “I’d let you stay over, but I know all your stuff is at the hotel.”

Mark’s cheeks flare with heat and his heart flutters a bit at that. Deciding to test the waters, he replies, “I could bring an overnight bag tomorrow just in case. Your couch is plenty comfy enough.”

When he looks over his shoulder at Ethan, the younger man is smiling to himself. “That’s fine with me, dude,” he says. If Mark trusted his own sleep-addled vision, he’d swear he could see a blush rising on Ethan’s cheeks, too.

“Sounds like a plan.” Mark closes the dishwasher and pats his damp hands dry on the towel hanging off the nearby oven door. With another yawn, he makes his way across the living room to the apartment door and slips his laceless shoes on, expecting to leave with only a smile, a wave, and a pleasant send-off after this tumultuous day.

But Ethan has other plans. “Before you go,” he says, walking over to Mark quickly, “I wanted to ask you one more thing. About your timeline.”

Mark nods, putting on his jacket obliviously. What’s one more question after the dozens he’s already answered today? “Sure, what’s up?”

“Do you slow dance to Hozier songs with all your ‘best friends’ there?”

And _that_ is pretty much the last question Mark expected to hear. He freezes, his gaze snapping up to meet Ethan’s. “Huh?”

“Do you,” Ethan repeats, taking a step closer, “slow dance to Hozier with all your best friends, or am I special?” There’s something unreadable glittering in his eyes, making them appear a lot bluer than they have all night.

Mark swallows hard, momentarily at a total loss for words. His heart is crawling up his throat like a trapped insect, choking him but _daring_ him to speak, and the weight of Ethan’s gaze does the same.

He can’t lie. Not about this.

“No,” Mark murmurs, “I don’t. And … yes, you are.”

It’s all he can allow himself to say for now, but Ethan’s expression changes just enough to make Mark think he’s said too much. However, Ethan simply says “Okay” and nods like he’s satisfied with the answer.

Then he opens his arms. “Do I get a hug before you go? I think we both need one.”

Mark still can’t get a read on what the tiny quirk in the corner of Ethan’s smile means, but he steps forward into Ethan’s embrace anyway. A good amount of tension drains out of him as soon as Ethan’s arms wrap around his shoulders, and he sighs, winding his own around Ethan’s slim waist. He’s still a bit bonier than Mark is used to, but the familiar scent makes up for it. Mark soaks in every drop of warmth he can and breathes deep — if he closes his eyes, he can almost convince himself he’s in his foyer in L.A., hugging Ethan goodbye after a long day packed with laughter and absurdity.

“Let’s try not to make each other cry tomorrow,” he jokes, needing to remind himself where he really is. “Just, y’know, for funsies.”

Ethan laughs softly in Mark’s ear, his chest vibrating against Mark’s for a moment. “I can get behind that.”

Then.

Before Mark can react — before he can even process what’s happening — Ethan pulls back just far enough to turn his head and press a light, lingering kiss to Mark’s temple.

“Go get some sleep, Mark,” he whispers as he breaks the hug. He takes a step back, biting his lip with that mysterious _something_ swirling in his eyes again. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Mark manages to reply even though his mind is full of _oh my god oh my god what the fuck holy shit whatthefuckwasthatohmygod._ He reaches blindly behind himself, fumbles with the doorknob, and backs out of the apartment.

As soon as the door closes in front of his face, he touches his temple with reverent fingers and breathes out.

The spark glows brighter.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ethan is a talented, self-made person who works his ass off and i adore him.
> 
> Also, the song they dance to is “From Eden” by Hozier. One of the best love songs ever written in my opinion. Just. Lovely.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!! Stay tuned for chapter six tomorrow — you might already be able to guess what it entails ... heh.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early update?? Why not? :P
> 
> I have the next week off from work because of my upcoming birthday on the 26th, so there’s really no reason for me to wait until after midnight or 1 a.m. my time to post updates. Tomorrow’s might be later because of some running around I have to do, but i thought I’d give you lovelies a fresh new chapter a couple hours early tonight just because you’re amazing and i love you all. <3
> 
> BE WARNED: the fic tags have been updated to reflect the events of this chapter. Don’t like, don’t read. And if you don’t like this chapter, the next one will REALLY not be to your taste, lol. However, if this chapter IS to your taste, i sure hope it’s somewhat close to the payoff you were hoping for. On the surface I know it may seem rushed and moving a little fast, but 1) i think in the full context of the fic it isn’t as rushed as it seems, and 2) self-indulgent.
> 
> Also, I’m fully aware that most of the chapters so far have started with Mark waking up somewhere and/or commenting on how much sleep Mark’s gotten. I guess when i was dividing up this monster of a fic into chapters, that was the easiest way for me to differentiate the different days. Hope it’s okay with y’all — trust me, some of the upcoming chapters will begin differently!!!
> 
> Alright, here’s chapter six! I’m gonna finish my rum and coke and go watch eef’s twitch stream that just started. I hope he sings “heather” again ... i have so many Thoughts about that cover.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! :D

He isn’t sure how, but Mark manages to sleep from midnight to almost 10:30 in the morning the next day. It’s a welcome change of pace after the slew of near-sleepless nights he’s had recently, so he doesn’t beat himself up too much about it. He wakes to his phone buzzing on the nightstand beside him and reaches for it with a nerveless hand, barely able to focus his eyes long enough to see the screen. It’s Ethan, of course.

“Whazzit?” Mark says articulately as a greeting. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “What’s up?”

There’s a pause. “Dude, did you just wake up?” Ethan asks, apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be,” Mark insists. He rubs his eyes with his free hand and stares at the ceiling, smiling at the sound of Ethan’s voice. “I should’ve been up hours ago. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just wanted to let you know I picked up the graphics card and the PSU we ordered — you weren’t answering my texts.”

Mark takes his phone away from his ear and looks at his notifications — sure enough, Ethan’s texted him four times in the last hour. “God, I’m sorry. I guess I just conked out pretty hard after last night.”

“I figured that’s what happened. It’s cool, dude, really.” There’s the faint sound of a car door closing. “You still wanna come over and help me put this thing together?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Even though they’d both realized last night that either way, all the updated tech Mark bought Ethan won’t even be around in six days, it’s still something to do together. Existential crises aside, it should be fun. “I can show you around the camera, too. You’ve got all your stuff backed up somewhere, right?”

“Yep. But I think we might be able to just put the old SSD into the new unit … ”

They keep chatting as Mark drags himself out of bed, gets dressed, and eats a meager cold cereal breakfast. Neither of them mentions the dancing or the casual kiss from yesterday, even though that’s what’s taking up the most space in Mark’s head right now. If he concentrates hard enough, he can still feel the ghost of Ethan’s lips against his skin, warm and soft. His Ethan has held his hand, danced with him, shared a bed and a tour bus with him, and _painted him nude,_ but he’s never kissed Mark. Mark’s dropped the occasional smooch to the top of Ethan’s head, sure, but never in anything but a friendly manner.

That temple kiss from last night didn’t feel like a simple friendly kiss. But Mark knows that could just be wishful thinking kicking in.

Once he’s shoved a pair of sweatpants, a change of clothes, and his toothbrush into his backpack (his “just in case” overnight bag), Mark climbs into his rental car and ends the call. His drives to and from Ethan’s apartment are usually the times he lets his mind overthink and overanalyze his most recent interaction with Ethan, but for some reason, he feels a lot more at ease today. It’s probably the extra sleep. His stomach flutters with something other than dread and general anxiety as he thinks about spending the next several hours with Ethan, as well, which is another nice change.

In fact, for the first time since this whole thing started, Mark feels _excited_ to see Ethan. Not nervous, not stressed, just … excited. Happy, even.

He’s _looking forward_ to it.

Huh.

This change in mindset makes the drive seem both too short and too long. Mark parks in his now-usual spot on the curb in front of Ethan’s building and hurries up to the door. Before he can even touch the intercom, the door buzzes and unlocks. _Was he watching out the window for me?_ Mark wonders as he enters and takes the stairs two at a time.

Sure enough, Ethan is waiting right inside the apartment door when Mark knocks. It opens immediately, and Mark is greeted by a smiling, bespectacled Ethan. The younger man looks … perfect, really, in the tight black jeans and dark blue button-up he’s wearing. It’s a far cry from the t-shirts, joggers, and hoodies he’s worn the past few days. Mark can’t help but comment. “You get all dressed up just for me?” he asks, trying for a joking tone to mask his genuine curiosity.

Ethan giggles softly and shrugs one shoulder, stepping aside so Mark can come in. “Gotta make a good impression on alternate-universe Markiplier,” he says with a goofy lilt to his voice that makes Mark snicker. “‘Sides, I didn’t know if I’d be recording anything for the channel with that new camera.”

“Sure, sure, it’s for the _internet,”_ Mark teases, trying to keep from blushing this early in their day together. He kicks off his shoes and shucks off his jacket, suddenly feeling underdressed in his worn blue jeans and stretched-out black tee from a charity event he can’t even remember attending. “If I’d known this was a fuckin’ black tie affair, I’d’ve made more of an effort myself.”

“Oh, shut up, you look fine. People will think you’re a male model no matter what you wear.”

Mark gives up on trying not to blush and scoffs wordlessly as he drops his backpack by his shoes and follows Ethan to the recording room. Yeah, things definitely feel a little … different today. Mark would like to believe that’s a good thing, but given their track record so far, it’s hard to predict how anything will play out.

As soon as he’s in a sound-treated studio room full of ring lights and cameras and screens, Mark feels more acclimated. Once they’ve got Ethan’s two PC towers, the new and old components they’ll be installing in the new one, and all the finicky tools needed to do the job in one place, they spread it all out on the rug and set to work.

It only takes about an hour to get the new PC built in just the way Ethan wants it — rigged up with more efficient and higher-quality parts than the pre-built version had — and Mark can’t help but marvel at Ethan’s skill. Ethan knows exactly which parts go where and how to safely install them — he even knows enough to point out that he’ll probably need to get new fans, too, because the ones on pre-builds are mostly just for show. They both forget this is a futile activity pretty early on, more interested in just being together and talking to each other than anything.

“D’you remember what kind of PC I have where you’re from?” Ethan asks as they’re setting up the newly-finished tower on his desk. Mark finds the terminology Ethan uses interesting — he rarely asks about Mark’s “timeline” or “universe;” it’s almost always “where you’re from,” like Mark’s visiting from out of state. Like it’s somewhere Ethan can visit himself. Maybe it’s a way to rationalize it in his head, or maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

When he remembers Ethan’s just asked him a question, Mark snaps himself back to reality and shakes his head. “Nah. I think it was kind of a mix of a bunch of older ones you accumulated over the years,” he replies as he rounds the desk and sits at Ethan’s chair to tap at the keyboard. The two monitors flicker into life, and the familiar Windows 10 startup screen appears after a minute. “Hey, look, we did it!”

Ethan comes around to stand beside Mark and beams when he sees his login screen appear. “Woohoo!” He rests one hand on the back of the chair and reaches for the mouse with the other, logging in with a couple clicks. “Alright, now we gotta make sure everything’s updated, get the right drivers … fuck, this is still gonna take another few hours.”

“Yeah, well. We’ve got a little time.” Mark swallows and turns to look at Ethan beside him. Like this, he’s sort of looming over Mark, his left arm practically wrapped around Mark’s shoulders. He keeps talking, saying something about being too lazy to test the GPU, but Mark is only watching the way his mouth moves. The soft glow of the screens reflects off his glasses and his eyes beneath them, making them look like rippling pools of water. Mark wants to dive in and never resurface.

He doesn’t notice he’s been staring until he registers Ethan repeating his name. Blinking a few times, Mark coughs awkwardly and turns his attention back to the monitors. “‘Kay, first things first: Windows update,” he babbles, ignoring the weight of Ethan’s inquisitive gaze burning a hole through the side of his skull.

As much as Mark keeps trying to fight it, he can’t deny the growing feeling that all this is leading up to something. Last night had been yet another milestone in their wacky interdimensional friendship, and Mark knows what he’d like the next one to be, but the likelihood of that happening today — or at all — is minuscule.

Granted, he’d considered it impossible yesterday. A minuscule chance is better than no chance at all. Not by a lot, though.

Mark bullshits his way through most of the software setup stuff since it becomes obvious pretty quickly that Ethan is the expert here. Once they’ve got the right things updating and downloading and calibrating, they leave the desk and head over to the couch across the room to work with the camera a little. This is where Mark comes into his own, and he starts rambling about lenses and white balance and face recognition to distract himself from the unfamiliar ember that’s slowly flaring to life in Ethan’s eyes.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Mark says at the end of a long-winded spiel about the differences between the A7 and the A9 that he’s sure Ethan only half listened to. “Go stand over — no, wait, c’mere first.”

He stands up from the couch and motions for Ethan to do the same. Fiddling with the camera for a moment, he adjusts a few settings before aiming it at Ethan. “Alright, it’s recording. I’m gonna show you just how solid this face lock is, it’s crazy.”

“Is it locked on me now?” Ethan asks, weaving his head back and forth a bit.

“Yep. Now back up till you’re against that wall — no, wait, a little slower — yeah, perfect.” Mark watches the camera’s display as Ethan drifts backwards until he’s about ten feet away, against the wall beside the TV. “God, this thing’s incredible. I’ve said before that it’s a total waste as a webcam, but honestly, once you’ve used it you’ll never wanna go back to anything else.”

“It sure is expensive enough to be the best.” Ethan’s head tilts a bit and he quirks a slight smile at Mark through the camera lens. “You look like a photographer.”

Mark just hums, messing a bit with the zoom and the focus. “The most photography I do is of my dog,” he says absently as he adjusts another exposure setting, his gaze fixed on Ethan’s miniaturized face. “And it’s just with my iPhone camera. Could probably get good at using this if I practiced.”

“I bet you could.” Adjusting his glasses, Ethan leans against the wall with his hands tucked behind his back like he’s trying to pose. It’s working. “I actually have an ex who was a photographer.”

“Hmm.” The words don’t really sink in — Mark’s too invested in getting Ethan’s shirt to look the right shade of blue in this poor lighting. “She help you pick out the camera you have now?”

“Yeah, he did.”

Mark’s fingers stop working.

He loses his grip on the camera, barely managing to fumble and catch it before it hits the floor. His lungs are the next thing to fail him — it feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room. His chest burns for a moment as he chokes on his own spit and coughs, looking up at Ethan in shock. The younger man is infuriatingly nonchalant, still leaning against the wall with an almost amused expression creeping over his dumb, pretty face.

Needless to say, this is kind of a revelation. Ethan’s outright told Mark in the past that he couldn’t see himself ever dating a guy, despite having kissed a couple. This had been another one of the hurdles that kept Mark from ever taking that next step, bringing up the possibility. The casual way this Ethan talks about it, like it’s not something he’s hiding or would even _want_ to hide, makes Mark’s head spin a little.

Swallowing hard, he blurts out eloquently, “Hhwhat?”

Ethan still looks entertained by Mark’s obvious surprise, but there’s a hint of confusion in his eyes now. “My ex-boyfriend was a photographer,” he repeats, slow, like he’s making it easy for Mark to understand.

Mark nods once as this information sinks in. “Oh.” He blinks, then blinks again, finding it suddenly difficult to maintain eye contact. “That’s. Good. ‘S real good. That. Yeah.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I … I’m not? I mean, I kinda am, I guess, ‘cuz you’ve never really … y’know.” God, why is it so hard to _speak_ now?

“Wait.” Ethan pushes off the wall and walks back over to Mark, genuinely puzzled now. “Did I … am I not out to you where you’re from?”

Mark shakes his head and steps back to sit down on the couch. He sets the camera on the side table — somehow managing to stop the recording — and looks over when Ethan sits beside him. “N-No, you’re not,” he replies. _Was he hiding this from me the whole time? From everyone?_ “Um. Y-You’ve said a couple times that you see sexuality as a spectrum? And that you’ve kissed guys but wouldn’t consider dating one, so. We — _I —_ always just assumed you were … not gay, but not _not-_ gay, if that makes any sense.”

“It kinda does,” Ethan says after a moment. There’s gears turning in his head again, like he’s trying to put together more pieces of the fucked-up puzzle their lives have become. “And for the record, I’m bi, not gay.”

Hearing the phrase _I’m bi_ come out of Ethan’s mouth so confidently makes Mark think he’s still asleep in his hotel room, dreaming more vividly than he has in years. “ … Right,” he says, still trying to wrap his head around it. He knows he should feel thrilled — if Ethan likes guys, he might like Mark, might even _more than like_ him at some point — but for some reason, there’s a block in his brain preventing it.

When he focuses on Ethan’s face again, a skeptical frown greets him. “You don’t, like, have an issue with it or something, do you?” Ethan asks, clearly ready to unleash hell if he gets the wrong answer.

 _“No!”_ Maybe it’s a little too enthusiastic, but Mark doesn’t care. “No, no way, man, of course I don’t. I swear.”

“Okay.” Ethan still looks perplexed. “Then why did you react like that?”

“Because … ” It takes a few seconds for Mark to decide how to word it. “ … Up until now, you’ve been almost exactly the same as the version of you I know — the ‘other you.’ You tell the same jokes, you do the same horrible accents and ridiculous voices. There’s been moments where I honestly thought I was back home for a second.”

He sighs deeply, running a hand through his own hair as he thinks. “You being so confident about this part of you, instead of … I dunno, shying away from it? Denying it? It’s the first time it’s been so obvious to me that you’re not … him.”

Mark expects Ethan to be offended by this, somehow, but instead the fog of confusion lifts from his eyes as something clicks. “Ooh,” he whispers, nodding in sudden understanding. “Oh my god, duh, I get it now.”

“What? What do you get?”

“You said I moved to L.A. in 2016, right?”

“Yeah?”

“I met Eric in 2018. At work. Here in Portland.”

“ … Oh.”

“Yeah.” Now it’s Ethan’s turn to run a hand through his hair anxiously. He sits back against the couch cushions and stares at the dark TV screen in front of them, like he’s seeing memories flash across it. “Up until then, I’d sorta felt the way you said — I’d found some guys attractive and kissed a few at random parties, but I’d never seen myself going beyond that. I never wanted to. Then Eric got hired at the restaurant, and he was … ”

Ethan bites his lip and smirks a little, and Mark feels the ugly burn of jealousy deep in his gut. He’s not generally a possessive person, but the though of another man getting his hands on Ethan before him makes him want to rip someone’s throat out. Preferably Eric’s.

“He changed my mind,” Ethan concludes. “I took one look at him and thought, ‘Yeah, I’m definitely not straight.’ He asked me out, I said yes, and we dated for about six months until he and his family moved to Pennsylvania.” He looks down at his hands in his lap, picking at a hangnail. “I haven’t dated another guy since, but he’s the one who got me to accept and embrace this part of myself. I wasn’t ashamed of it before, but I also just … wasn’t _sure._ Y’know?”

 _Yes._ “So … because you came to California before you met him, you never had your, like, ‘bi awakening’?” Mark’s head is starting to spin again, only this time it’s mostly jealous rage. Is it weird that he can’t help but think, _I should be the hottest guy he’s ever seen, not some grease-covered line cook from fucking Maine_?

Yes, it’s weird, but he’s gonna keep thinking it.

“Oh, I had a bi awakening _years_ before Eric, Mark.” Ethan smirks again and glances up, almost coy. “I’d had several, actually. But he’s the one who made me see it for what it was, instead of just a weird hero-worship thing.”

 _Hero worship?_ Oh god. Mark’s mind is going places he knows will only disappoint him. He cuts those thoughts off at the pass, forcing himself to nod in tentative understanding and re-focus on the conversation at hand. “I’m sorry that didn’t happen for you where I’m from,” he murmurs, feeling genuinely remorseful. This is just another thing Ethan will lose if he falls for Mark over the next five days.

“Trust me, Mark,” Ethan insists, meeting Mark’s eyes deliberately, “that’s no one’s fault. _Least_ of all yours. And honestly, it’s not like my life was miserable before I came to terms with everything — I was perfectly happy only dating girls. There’s just kind of … a ‘before’ and an ‘after.’”

“Yeah, I get that.” _Kind of like my life before and after I met you._

The conversation shifts back to the camera not long after that. Mark is careful not to act any differently — he doesn’t want Ethan to think he’s uncomfortable now. Because he isn’t. If anything, he’s just more hyper-aware of the way Ethan’s fingers brush against his when he takes the camera from him, more sensitive to the distance between their faces when they lean in to look at the footage playing back. It’s not a discomfort thing, it’s … a new awareness. One that makes Mark feel like he’s holding his breath.

Once Mark feels like he’s shown Ethan the A7’s most useful features, they head to the kitchenette for lunch — which is sushi, apparently. Ethan waves off Mark’s questions about how much it cost as he plates the California rolls and brings them to the living room. “I’m using PTO, remember?” he reminds Mark as he sits down on the couch and pops a roll into his mouth. “It’s not like I’m completely broke.”

They eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch as usual. Mark can’t help but sneak occasional glances at Ethan in his periphery, admiring the way his shirt makes him look less scrawny than the hoodies from the past few days had. His hair flops down onto his forehead a few times, but he pushes it back up in an unconscious motion Mark fixates on — once again, he’s the same Ethan Mark remembers, if only for a moment.

The plan was to head back into the recording room after eating, but they find themselves chatting somewhat aimlessly once their plates are empty. Mark tucks his feet under himself and props his head up on one hand as he listens to Ethan ramble about a new indie game he’d been planning on playing for his channel the night Mark showed up. He’s so animated, his hands hypnotic as they wave through the air to emphasize his words, and Mark is perfectly content to watch him talk for the rest of the day.

At some point, the conversation circles back to the inevitable — Ethan’s life in Mark’s timeline. Mark tells him more about Spencer, about Kathryn, and even Ethan’s friendship with Amy. He eventually finds himself blushing and stammering through the miserable story of his First Time, since Ethan insists it’s unfair that he doesn’t know it when Mark knows his.

“It was horrible,” Mark finishes, downing the last glug of water in the glass he’d filled up earlier. “Not a single part of it was enjoyable. We were both kinda mortified by the end of it, and we didn’t really talk much after that night.”

“God.” Ethan rubs his eyes with one hand and laughs a bit. “That is _not_ what I expected from the Sex Symbol of YouTube’s Gaming Community.”

Mark barks out a humorless laugh and shakes his head. “Look, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’ve never felt sexy a day in my life.”

For whatever reason, he expects Ethan to comment on that statement, but he doesn’t. “You’ve only dated girls, then?” he asks instead, out of nowhere.

There’s a strange inflection in his voice that Mark is afraid to identify. His eyes are searching Mark’s face like they’re trying to memorize his every expression; Mark feels _seen_ in a way he can’t recall feeling before. “Uh, yeah,” he replies once he’s found his voice again. “Only girls.”

“Mmm.” Ethan nods slowly and blinks even slower. “So you’re straight.”

“I never said that.”

The words are out of Mark’s mouth before he realizes it. Instant panic grips his lungs and he stops breathing, analyzing Ethan’s face as it changes from mostly neutral to transparently curious. Ethan’s eyebrows shoot up and his eyes flash behind his glasses like he’s a hunter who’s just spotted that evening’s meal.

“I — I mean — ” Mark tries desperately to recover, curling in on himself a bit as he glances frantically at everything in the apartment except Ethan. “ — Look, I’ve — I-I’ve had _thoughts_ before, sure, but I’ve never, like, put a label on it.”

“Why not?” Ethan’s voice is soft, trying to lead Mark down from the cliff he’s dangling from. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, obviously, but. Is there a reason?”

_Because I’ve only ever had ‘thoughts’ about you._

This is dangerous territory. Yes, Mark knows his ultimate goal here is to get Ethan to fall in love with him and to do that there’s probably gotta be some … _actions_ taken, but. Now that he’s coming face-to-face with it, he’s petrified. He’s never even had this talk with _his_ Ethan — and yet, he knows more about Ethan now than when he made that selfish wish five days ago.

So the question Mark has to ask himself now is this: does he feel for this Ethan the same things he feels for the one he’s known for almost four years?

Are they really that different?

Looking into this Ethan’s riptide eyes, Mark finds his answer. Because he realizes he isn’t looking into a _version_ of them — they’re identical. This man’s face is the same as the Ethan Mark knows; his voice is the same; his heart’s the same. The way his laugh makes Mark’s soul glow with happiness and adoration is exactly the same.

He’s just Ethan. _The_ Ethan. Which means this is the chance Mark’s been waiting for for months, even if it didn’t come the way he thought it would. Additionally, this could be the only chance he ever gets to finally have Ethan like he’s wanted to for so long.

But.

It still feels _wrong._ They’re literally from two different worlds. Ethan himself admitted it a few minutes ago — Mark knows Ethan far better than Ethan could ever hope to know Mark in this universe, and that creates an imbalance. Anything Mark says or does to initiate something between them could be considered manipulative, even if Ethan decides he doesn’t care.

Mark wants to tell him the truth. _So_ badly. But that truth dies in his throat before he can let it out.

Ethan seems to notice his reluctance to answer, and he takes that as his cue to press further. He shifts on the couch so he’s facing Mark fully and asks, simple and direct, “Are we really _just_ friends where you’re from?”

Mark bites his lip and nods, wanting to turn away but finding himself incapable of it. “Yes,” he chokes out roughly, like he’s just gone 20 minutes full-speed on his Peloton. His pounding heart deafens him, makes his hands shake where they’re balled into tight fists in his lap.

“Okay.” After a moment of consideration, Ethan scoots an inch closer. He glances ever-so-quickly down at Mark’s bitten-red mouth, and Mark feels the urge to flee as fast as possible. “Have we — have _you —_ ever wanted more?”

He’s whispering now, low and almost sultry. Mark is only so strong.

Even though he knows it could be a mistake, he’s helpless to resist any longer. Ethan’s gravity is pulling him in, sending him spinning faster and faster to a fiery demise that he craves against his better judgment. With the reticence of a murderer in a confession booth, he murmurs, “Yes.”

Ethan exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour, seemingly relieved. He hesitates, looks down at Mark’s mouth again, and wets his lips like he knows exactly what it’s doing to Mark’s insides. “If you want me to want a life with you,” he murmurs, “this might be a good way to convince me.”

 _Jesus._ He’s the picture of everything Mark’s dreamt about since mid-2017 — his dark, hooded eyes, his flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the way his hair is barely neat enough to make Mark want to ruin it. Mark’s never wanted anything more than what Ethan’s offering right now, and it would be unbelievably easy to lean in those last few inches and take it.

The instant he feels Ethan’s hand on his knee, though, he panics.

“No,” he gasps, standing up from the couch in a rush and speed walking towards the kitchenette. Fuck, it’s getting harder to breathe. “No, god, _god,_ I can’t — ”

“Why not?” Ethan is right behind him, spinning him around with a gentle grip on his shoulder. “What’s so bad about it? We both want it, and it could help you get back where you belong.” He takes a step forward, then another, and another, until he has Mark backed up against the stainless steel fridge.

The proximity leaves Mark breathless. He shakes his head, still feebly trying to convince himself this is a bad idea. “Y-You don’t know me at all, Ethan,” he says in a rush, desperate to make the younger man understand. He presses his palms flat against the cold fridge door to keep from grabbing Ethan by the hips. “I know so much about you, so much more than you could possibly know about me, and — I just can’t. I have a _history_ with you that you don’t have with me. Here, I’m your idol, not your best friend who’s seen you at your best and worst so many times. How do I know I didn’t _trick_ you into feeling like this by buying you shit? How do _you_ know? I — I-I want this, but I can’t do it when it means more to me than it’ll ever mean to you.”

And that’s pretty much the long and the short of it. Mark lets the words hang in the air and watches Ethan’s expression carefully, his heart threatening to choke him once again. It’s the honest truth, and the one thing that’s been holding him back from trying to woo Ethan since night one. Yeah, it’s self-sabotaging, but it’s not like Mark’s never done that before.

But Ethan isn’t dissuaded. His grip on Mark’s shoulder loosens a little, but he stays where he is, his face less than a foot from Mark’s. Their chests almost brush as they breathe together, nearly synchronized.

“I know you’re kind,” Ethan murmurs, his voice like lazy running water. “I know you’re selfless and clever and talented. I know you’ve probably been through hell these past few days, pretending not to feel this so you didn’t scare me off. I know you’d put yourself through misery to make me happy. I know enough about you to already want you, whatever you’ll let me have, for as long as possible.”

He leans in closer, his wide eyes now firmly fixed on Mark’s parted lips. “I didn’t just randomly start feeling this today, Mark. You didn’t trick me. Hell, I’ve had a crush on you since I was sixteen and watching your fucking Amnesia videos. If you really want me to stop, I will, but trust me, I don’t want to.”

Ignoring the enormity of that confession for the time being, Mark finally lets himself stare at Ethan’s mouth. It’s wet and pink and as enticing as it’s ever been, and it’s only getting closer. With a shaky sigh, Mark feels the last semblance of his resolve crumble to dust. “I don’t want you to stop, either,” he breathes, his vision going a little blurry at the edges. _Is this really about to happen?_ “I … _Ethan_ … ”

“Mark.” Their noses bump together, and Ethan nuzzles Mark’s, deceptively innocent. “It’s alright. Just kiss me.”

Mark’s done.

He’s done holding back, done denying himself, done denying Ethan. Moving purely on autopilot, he wraps his arms around Ethan’s waist, pulls him in, and kisses him like they’re both drowning.

In the very back of his mind, he hears his heart sigh, _At last._

It’s … Mark doesn’t even have the words. All he knows is when their mouths collide, everything in his head goes completely quiet for the first time since he woke up in that unfamiliar bedroom five days ago. Ethan melts against him like putty, locking his arms around Mark’s neck and plastering himself against Mark from knees to chest as he tilts his head to try and get _more._ All Mark can do is give it to him, parting his lips with a quiet whine and licking inquisitively at the seam of Ethan’s until he’s granted entrance. He tastes like seafood; Mark knows he must taste the same, but it doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is tangling his fingers in Ethan’s soft hair and holding Ethan against him and nipping at Ethan’s lips and letting out every ounce of desire and lust and stamped-down _need_ he’s felt for ages.

Ethan seems to be releasing his own pent-up emotions, if the urgent way he’s licking into Mark’s mouth like he’s trying to reach his tonsils is any indication. He’s trembling in Mark’s arms, pulling at Mark’s hair, squirming against him and knocking a few magnets from the fridge onto the linoleum floor. Their glasses start to interfere with the proceedings after a minute, so Mark breaks away just long enough to gasp for breath and take his own off. “Can I?” he whispers, lightly touching Ethan’s as he reaches up to brush some hair off the younger man’s forehead. God, but his eyes are gorgeous up close.

“Go ahead,” Ethan rasps, but he ends up whipping them off himself and throwing them over his own shoulder a moment later, impatient. He dives back into the kiss immediately and Mark catches him, cupping the side of his face in one hand as he slots their mouths together perfectly. They just _fit,_ he realizes, dragging his tongue against Ethan’s just to feel him shiver.

And in that moment, Mark’s poor heart stops aching. In that moment, he feels like the “curse” he’s trapped in is already broken. Because he _has_ Ethan now — his Ethan, this Ethan, they’re one and the same. He isn’t kissing some fraud. He isn’t running his fingers through the hair of a knock-off impostor. This is _Ethan,_ wholly and undoubtedly, and _oh god he’s so good at this please never stop ever._

They stay like that for … a long time, kissing and touching and breathing and gasping random strings of words — _you’re amazing, wanted this, is this okay, so perfect —_ during brief breaks for air. Eventually, Mark‘s mouth starts to feel bruised, and he carefully pulls away as far as the fridge against his back will allow. Panting roughly, he rests his forehead against Ethan’s and holds him tight around the waist, not ready to let go yet. He doesn’t think he ever will be.

“You can’t imagine,” he gasps, dizzy and elated, “what I’m feeling right now.” And it’s true. Every Ethan-centric emotion he’s ever catalogued in his mind is rushing to the surface, threatening to pull him under and never let him up again. If he isn’t careful, he might drown in the waves of adoration and gratitude and protectiveness and love.

 _Fuck._ Mark’s never felt more in love than he does right here, in this Maine apartment, with Ethan warm and willing and _perfect_ against him. Despite everything, Mark can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

Ethan inhales through his nose and lets it out in a slow whoosh against Mark’s lips. “I think I can imagine part of it,” he says, nudging a knee just barely between Mark’s thighs. It’s all Mark can do to not openly moan at the wordless suggestion. “You kissed me like you knew how to. Thought you said we were just friends.”

It’s hard to speak past the growing wildfire of arousal coursing through Mark’s veins, but he somehow manages it. “We are,” he whispers. “But I know you, remember?”

“Yeah.” Ethan nuzzles Mark’s nose again and leans in for another kiss. It’s deep and knee-weakening and Mark is so close to spinning them around and pressing Ethan against this fridge and _wrecking_ him. It breaks off after a minute, though, when Ethan asks breathlessly, “‘S that mean you know what I like?”

“It means I know your body,” Mark rumbles, his skin tingling everywhere it’s touching Ethan’s. To demonstrate his point, he moves his mouth to Ethan’s barely-stubbled jaw, dragging his lips across the warm skin until he’s kissing Ethan’s pulse point. “For one thing, I know you have a sensitive neck.”

Ethan shivers and tips his head to the side to give Mark more room. “Y-You’re not wrong.”

“Good.” Mark’s tongue flicks out just for a moment, teasing, tasting. His trepidation from earlier is pretty much gone, and all he wants to do now is spend the rest of the day making Ethan melt in his arms like this.

“Fuck.” Ethan tightens his hold on the soft hair at the back of Mark’s neck and presses even closer, pushing their hips flush together. _“Mark.”_

In the farthest reaches of his mind, Mark still thinks this is going too fast. He’s still afraid this is manipulative in some way, like he’s tricked Ethan into wanting this. But he could only have five days left with Ethan, and if Ethan lets him spend them like this, no force in heaven or on earth is gonna stop him.

“I’m here,” he whispers, ragged, one hand sliding down Ethan’s spine until it’s pressed firmly against the small of his back. It’s getting more and more difficult to ignore the tightening of his jeans — he thinks he’s probably been hard since Ethan told him to kiss him — and he can feel the solid heat of Ethan’s own erection against his hip. As mind-numbingly hot as that is, Mark is at a loss for what to do about it. “I — I don’t — ”

“‘S okay,” Ethan says. He scritches the nape of Mark’s neck with gentle fingertips and leans back just far enough to lock eyes with Mark again. There’s a gorgeous red flush coloring his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and his pupils are so blown out his eyes look black. “Do — D’you wanna move to the couch?”

Mark’s knees almost give out at the sight of Ethan so blatantly turned on. He considers the logistics of walking all the way back to the living room without letting go of Ethan and decides it’s not worth it. “No, this — wanna stay here,” he says, feeling himself blushing darker. “I-I just don’t know what to — I’ve never — with a guy, y’know?”

Jesus, he sounds like such a virgin. But Ethan doesn’t miss a beat. “I know,” he murmurs, running a thumb briefly over Mark’s bottom lip. “We don’t have to do anything right now if you don’t wanna — this is kinda overwhelming for me, too, to be honest. But … ”

He rolls his hips forward once, dragging the length of his cock against the crease of Mark’s hip through two layers of denim and cotton. He’s hard and hot and the obvious, unmistakable arousal makes Mark’s head spin. Ethan’s knee creeps up a little higher between Mark’s legs, as well, forcing a surprised gasp out of him. _Holy shit._

“ … This could definitely work,” Ethan declares a second later, swallowing hard and nodding half to himself. “If you want.”

Mark doesn’t think twice. He’s too desperate, too high on every sensation crackling through his nerve endings to second-guess this anymore. “I want,” he growls. Before he can stop himself, he grabs Ethan’s hips and holds him still as he grinds forward. _“Oh.”_

“Ah — !” Ethan adjusts his stance just slightly, then leans in for a filthy, depraved kiss that leaves them both feeling even more unraveled. When he pulls back, he whispers against Mark’s lips, “Then follow my lead.”

After that, there’s nothing but friction and heat and need between them. Ethan worms his hands between the fridge door and Mark’s ass and holds on tight as his hips do most of the work, moving in firm, maddening little circles. Mark does his best to give as good as he’s getting, meeting Ethan thrust for thrust, but he’s honestly so overwhelmed by this whole situation that he ends up letting Ethan disassemble him. Whining helplessly, he grabs fistfuls of Ethan’s shirt and buries his face in Ethan’s neck as the pleasure rockets through him. “O-Oh my god, fuck — _fuck — !”_

Ethan nods, panting against Mark’s shoulder. “God, Mark,” he breathes, and _shit,_ he’s moving a hand to the back of Mark’s right thigh so he can hike it up. The angle changes as a result, and their cocks line up perfectly.

 _“Ethan!”_ It’s pathetically close to a scream, but Mark is beyond caring. There’s no way this should feel as good as it does. He kisses and nips mindlessly at the sensitive skin against his mouth, reveling in the high-pitched moans that result. They’re both still fully dressed, overheating in their clothes, and Mark soon finds himself pawing at Ethan’s covered chest with one hand. “O-Open, open it, please … ”

There’s barely a pause before Ethan says, “Rip it open.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. Vaguely aware that he’ll probably feel bad about this later, he grips the two sides of Ethan’s button-down shirt and _pulls._ Buttons go flying, clattering everywhere as they land on the counter, in the sink, and on the floor, but Mark pays them no mind. He’s much more focused on the smooth expanse of pale skin he’s just revealed, which he immediately runs his hands all over. There isn’t enough distance between them for him to explore properly, though, so he ends up wrapping his arms around Ethan again and raking his nails down his bare back.

Both of them are so worked up that they know this won’t last long. Ethan kisses Mark hard, stifling the embarrassing noises pouring out of both their mouths, and ruts into him even harder. The fridge starts thumping slightly against the wall in time with his movements, rattling the dust-covered stand mixer on top of it, but neither of them has the presence of mind to worry about what the neighbors will think.

“So fuckin’ hot,” Ethan mutters into Mark’s gaping mouth, gripping his thigh tighter. “I wanna — nngh, _fuck_ — wanna see you come, Mark, been picturing it in my head for years, _please_ — ”

Mark _sobs_ and his hips start jackrabbiting against Ethan’s, frantic and uncoordinated. He’s throbbing in his jeans, leaking through the denim already, and he knows he’s almost done for. But after all this time and all this effort, he needs to get Ethan off first.

Forcing his eyes to open and his hips to still, Mark stares dazedly at the sweaty face of the man he loves and reaches between them with one uncoordinated hand. “N-Not before you,” he says. With much more confidence than he feels, he curls his fingers around the shape of Ethan’s cock through his tight jeans and _squeezes._

Ethan’s muscles lock up, and he moans like he’s in pain. “Mark!”

“Please … ” Mark rubs Ethan through the fabric as best he can and latches onto Ethan’s neck. “Come for me, Eth,” he whispers before kissing his way to Ethan’s open collar and biting down.

“ _Mark!”_ Ethan throws his head back, fucks into Mark’s grip once, and cries out brokenly as he comes hard. His entire body quakes with it, and his _face —_ Mark stares with rapt attention at Ethan’s furrowed brow, the vein popping in his forehead, his open mouth, his pink cheeks. It’s everything Mark imagined it would be and ten thousand times more. He takes in every single detail and commits it to memory, trying to ignore the reptilian voice in his head telling him he may only remember it for a few days.

The voice is silenced when Ethan loses his balance a minute later, collapsing against Mark like his strings were just cut. Wet warmth spreads across the front of his jeans and Mark’s palm, but it only makes Mark even more desperate for his own release.

Whimpering softly and still trembling, Ethan tucks his face against Mark’s sweat-slick neck and presses close. “Holy hell,” he gasps, marching sloppy kisses down the line of Mark’s clenched jaw. After letting go of Mark’s thigh, he wraps his arms around Mark’s waist and holds him, panting. “Fuck, Mark.”

“Ethan … ” It comes out like a whine, airy and dripping with need. Mark wants Ethan to have a second to bask in the afterglow, but he can barely think past the unbearable throbbing of his dick, still trapped by denim and cotton and begging for friction. “Please, d-do something, _please —_ ”

“Oh, I will.” Deft fingers start undoing Mark’s fly, dragging the zipper down notch by notch. “This okay?”

Mark would let Ethan do practically anything to him right now, but he only has enough brainpower left to choke out, _“Yes,_ yesyesyes.” He doesn’t even recognize his own voice anymore — it’s ragged and ruined, eroded by lust and blinding arousal.

“God,” Ethan whispers, pulling back to watch Mark’s face. One of his hands boldly dips into Mark’s soaked gray boxers as the other slips under his t-shirt, warm and searching. He grips Mark’s cock tight and starts jacking him fast, dragging a calloused thumb over a hypersensitive nipple at the same time. “You’re fucking incredible.”

The combined sensations are just too much for Mark to handle. He comes instantly, clawing at Ethan’s back under his open shirt and wailing at the top of his lungs. His body jolts like he’s been tased and he shoots all over Ethan’s fist and his own jeans, thumping his head back against the fridge door. Wave after wave of delicious, red-hot agony rolls over him, filling his chest and burning him up from the inside. In all honesty, he wouldn’t care if it killed him.

It could last for minutes or hours. All Mark knows is he feels safer, happier, and more sated than he’s ever felt after sex. As soon as he opens his eyes, Ethan leans in to kiss him, so he closes them again a moment later. Every cell in his body is humming like millions of microscopic tuning forks, and they’re all vibrating to the frequency of Ethan’s honey-thick voice as he coos over and over, “I’ve got you, so pretty, so hot, you’re perfect.” The words are a shot of morphine to Mark’s spine and he swears he feels his feet leave the ground for a couple seconds.

For all the times he’s imagined his first time with Ethan, Mark never thought it would be dry humping against a refrigerator. And yet, somehow, it’s better than he ever dreamt it would be. It’s hot and passionate and toe-curling, yes, but also … peaceful. Natural, too, like this is a base instinct for both of them. They’ve always fit together so well, in so many ways — creatively, comedically, intellectually. It makes sense that this wouldn’t be any different.

They surface from the kiss huffing out labored breaths into each other’s mouths, both of them reluctant to pull away. The sticky mess in Mark’s boxers and all over his jeans is starting to cool, but it’s the last thing on his mind as he cradles the side of Ethan’s face in his clean hand and holds him close. “That,” he murmurs, voice rumbling deep in his chest, “was _not_ what I expected to happen today.”

Ethan laughs, high and breathless and beautiful, and drops his head onto Mark’s lax shoulder. “Me neither,” he giggles, wiping his jizz-covered hand on his own ruined jeans. “I, uh. I don’t usually move this fast, but considering how long you’ve been waiting for this, maybe it isn’t so fast for you.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said you’ve had a crush on me for seven years,” Mark points out, dipping his fingers just barely beneath Ethan’s waistband. His other hand moves to the back of Ethan’s head, carding gently through his frazzled brown hair. “So I wouldn’t consider this very fast for you, either.”

“Dude, I met you on _Tuesday.”_

“Yeah, _four days ago._ If this had happened _yesterday,_ sure, maybe then I’d call it moving a little fast, but four whole days is — ”

“You’re completely ridiculous.”

Ethan pulls back enough to meet Mark’s eyes again, his own overflowing with a familiar mirth and fondness that make Mark’s heart ache. His forehead is slick with sweat, his smirking lips are swollen and red, and his hair’s an absolute rat’s nest — in short, he’s the most gorgeous thing Mark’s ever seen. Leaning in for another kiss is the only thing Mark can do when confronted with such perfection, so he does just that, and Ethan responds like he was waiting for it.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are the hum of the fridge against Mark’s back and the soft, wet sounds of their mouths connecting and disconnecting. The smell of sweat and sex is becoming slightly overpowering, but Mark can’t bring himself to care when he finally has Ethan in his arms at long last, kissing him like he’d die without it. Letting go of him, breaking this kiss for any reason, has to be illegal somewhere.

 _I love you,_ Mark thinks, wondering if Ethan can feel it simmering in the air around them. _More than I can say, more than I can show you right now, I love you._

Several more minutes pass in a thoroughly enjoyable manner before Ethan finally pulls away. “We really need to change our clothes.” His eyes sparkle with amusement as he looks Mark up and down, no doubt appreciating his debauched appearance. Not that he looks any better himself with his unbuttoned shirt and reddening hickeys decorating his neck and shoulder. “You’ve got some in that backpack, right?”

“Yeah.” Mark moves his hand from the back of Ethan’s head to his neck, tracing the indents of his own teeth in the pale skin. “Um. Would you mind if I showered, actually? Might be the best way to get clean.”

“Yeah, no, go ahead.” Ethan bites his lip, looks between the two of them one more time, and shakes his head in awe as he starts to laugh again. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Mark watches Ethan for a couple seconds before chuckling himself. “What’s so funny?”

“I just had _clothed sex_ with _Markiplier_ in my fucking _kitchen,”_ Ethan squeaks before doubling over, pressing his face into Mark’s broad chest and cracking up completely. Mark finds himself joining in, throwing his head back and laughing harder than he has in … a long time.

“W-Well, it’s definitely your ‘fucking kitchen’ now,” he snickers. It’s a horrible joke and he knows it, but Ethan loses his mind nonetheless, swatting at Mark’s chest weakly as he struggles to breathe through his hysterical giggles.

As far as moments go, this one is pretty perfect.

Mark really hopes he remembers it six days from now.

When they’ve both gone quiet, Mark slides his hands down Ethan’s arms and tangles their fingers together. Ethan squeezes gently and smiles, finally backing up a step to pull Mark away from the fridge. “Go ahead and shower. You can use my soap.”

“Mmhmm. I won’t be long.” Mark’s eyes trace the blush that’s still spreading from Ethan’s cheeks to his bare chest and thinks about inviting Ethan to join him. That might be moving too fast for real, though, so he doesn’t. “Sorry about your shirt, by the way.”

Ethan looks puzzled for a moment and looks down at himself. “Oh!” he exclaims, barking out a surprised laugh. “I forgot about that! It’s okay, dude, really. Totally worth it.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” Mark promises before pulling Ethan in for one more soft kiss. It’s already way easier than it should be.

It takes two more minutes and about five more kisses for them to finally separate. They poke fun at each other’s awkward, I-just-came-in-my-pants waddling as Ethan heads to his bedroom and Mark gets his backpack. He had enough foresight to pack plenty of underwear for this trip — not because he thought something like this would happen, of course; he’s just always been an anxious packer — so he’s grateful to his past self for bringing two pairs of boxers to Ethan’s today instead of just one. He grabs one of those, a pair of black sweats, and a loose gray T-shirt before making his way to Ethan’s modest but clean bathroom.

As expected, Mark’s mind starts to wander under the hot spray of water. His thoughts go in dozens of directions as he scrubs his body with a bar of Irish Spring and haphazardly shampoos his hair, but every one of those directions has to do with Ethan. It doesn’t feel real, what just happened, and yet here Mark is, hosing the evidence off himself.

What does this mean for them? For Mark? Whatever they’ve just started is destined to only last five days at most, whether Mark breaks the curse or not. Is it even worth continuing if there’s a good chance neither of them will remember it soon?

The instant that question crosses Mark’s mind, he scoffs and shakes his head to himself. Of course it’s worth it. It’s worth everything — every hour, every minute, every heartbeat Mark gets to share with Ethan is more precious than he can describe. After finally tasting him, finally hearing and seeing him come apart … Mark knows for a fact he can never go back. He has no idea what he’ll do if he somehow does make it back to his own timeline after all this, only to have Ethan reject him once and for all. Sure, that’s not a very _likely_ scenario. But neither was living out a Disney-made _Back to the Future_ reboot, and here he is.

There’s also the question of whether Mark should come clean about the true depth of his feelings for Ethan, or let Ethan discover them himself. Would telling him improve the chances of reciprocity, or scare Ethan away? Mark is tempted to think that if Ethan were going to be scared away, it would’ve happened already, but. Learning one of your idols is your best friend in an alternate universe is much different than finding out they’re also insanely, irrevocably, wholeheartedly in love with you. Ethan’s handling the idea of Markiplier having the hots for him remarkably well so far, but the jury’s out as to how he’d react if _feelings_ got involved.

Once again, Mark realizes he has to withhold some information from Ethan still. For both their sakes. Chances are it won’t be withheld longer than another day or so, if things continue to be physical between them.

Memories and sensations flood Mark’s mind all at once, and he feels his face redden. He closes his eyes as he rinses his hair and mentally replays some of the sounds and images from earlier — Ethan’s little gasps as they’d moved together, the way he’d bit his lip just seconds before coming, the flush in the tips of his ears, his messy hair, his ruined voice telling Mark he wanted to watch him come … It’s all more than Mark ever dared to hope he’d get. The thought of it going even _further_ makes him shiver from head to toe. His spent cock gives a valiant twitch as he pictures getting Ethan naked on a bed, spread out and blissed out, begging and moaning and writhing —

 _Shit._ Mark whines and blinks his eyes open, determined to control himself for the rest of the day. This thing between him and Ethan, whatever it is, however doomed it may be, is still brand new. Yes, they’d made jokes about it not being too fast, but all humor aside … going from meeting someone to fucking them in four days is pretty fast for Mark. Even if he’s known the person he “met” five days ago for almost four years.

He’s fully aware his situation is complicated.

Once he’s willed his half-hard dick back into submission with cold water and horrific memories of Reddit 50/50 posts, Mark steps out of the shower and towels off. Seeing the reflection of a version of himself he doesn’t quite recognize when he looks in the mirror still freaks him out a bit, so he keeps his eyes down as he tugs on his boxers and sweats.

Mark finds Ethan cleaned up and lounging on the couch, scrolling on his phone with a mindless smile on his face. The mere sight of him has almost always been enough to make Mark’s heart flutter, but it’s even worse now. He bites his lip and pads over, bare feet quiet on the hardwood floor. “Hey.”

Ethan’s head snaps up immediately and he beams, face almost glowing with adoration Mark isn’t sure he deserves. “Hi,” he says, chipper. Then he blinks a couple times, taking in the image of a shirtless post-shower Mark before him with wide, awed eyes. “U-Um. Wow. Hi.”

Mark’s had thousands of people scream at him to take his shirt, his pants, and pretty much every other article of clothing off over the years. Even this version of him, despite being leaner and less sculpted than Mark’s used to, has some muscle, and he’s somewhat used to people enthusiastically appreciating it.

And yet, Ethan’s soft “wow” makes Mark blush brighter than he had in the kitchen earlier. He glances down at the floor, wringing his t-shirt in his hands. “D’aww, stop it, you,” he mutters, waving a hand dismissively.

He expects a response to that, but Ethan goes strangely silent. When Mark looks up again, Ethan is still staring, but his expression’s changed. He looks more … pensive, and his smile isn’t as wide. He also seems to be fixated on a specific point on Mark’s torso. Mark looks down himself, wondering if he’s still got soap on him or something, and it clicks.

Ethan’s staring at his scars.

Mark barely thinks about them anymore. The biggest, objectively ugliest one — the six-inch incision down the center of his abs — is eight years old, and the rest, though more recent, are small and mostly inconsequential. In his timeline, the internet’s seen them all up-close and personal many times, and so has Ethan. It’s been ages since Mark felt self-conscious about being shirtless because of them.

But Ethan’s scrutiny is heavy and focused, and Mark feels that old shame bubble up in him from a dried-up spring. He blushes even darker and scrambles to get his shirt on, muttering apologies and turning his back to Ethan as quickly as he can. God, he feels like an idiot; Ethan’s probably never looked too closely at any shirtless images of him and now that he knows what Mark _really_ looks like he’s gonna —

His frantic thoughts are silenced by Ethan grabbing his shaking hands and prying them away from his shirt. The younger man has somehow teleported and is now standing right in front of Mark with a confused, concerned expression coloring his features.

“I-I’m sorry,” Mark stammers, the words tumbling out of him. “I forgot for a second that you’ve probably never … that you didn’t know — ”

“I knew,” Ethan murmurs. He runs his thumbs over Mark’s knuckles and bends a little to meet his eyes. _“I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t’ve stared. It’s just … seeing them in real life, seeing _you_ in real life, this close to me _…_ it’s a lot different than seeing it on a screen.”

Mark bites his lip and lets his hands relax in Ethan’s. “You’re not, like, freaked out by them, are you? D’you even know where they’re from?”

“Of course I’m not freaked out. And yeah, I think I at least know what the big one’s from.” Slowly, as though Mark’s a spooked deer, Ethan moves his hands to the hem of Mark’s shirt. Mark lets him pull it up and off, and he drapes it over the back of the couch. “Can I?” he asks, his fingertips hovering over the newly exposed skin.

Mark nods without hesitation. He trusts Ethan, and he only flinches a little when Ethan’s cold hands make contact.

“It was surgery, right? For a tumor?” Ethan runs his hands up and down Mark’s bare sides a couple times before one drifts over to trace the healed incision. His fingertips leave a trail of sparks and low-simmering desire in their wake. “I think you called it your lowest point, once.”

“Sounds about right.” Mark stands there fidgeting for several seconds before placing his own hands on Ethan’s hips. The waistband of the sweats Ethan’s changed into is riding low; Mark can’t resist hooking his pinkies beneath it. “The scars are one of the only things that’s the same about my body in this timeline. They’re all from surgeries. Guess I’m destined to orbit the nearest hospital in every universe.”

Ethan’s face looks a little stricken at that, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Mark’s torso for another minute. Once he’s touched every square inch of tan, sparsely freckled skin, he slides his palms up to rest on Mark’s pecs. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, glancing up to meet Mark’s eyes. “Really. It’s unfair how hot you are.”

Another statement Mark’s heard dozens of times, but it strikes him differently coming from Ethan. “You’re one to talk,” he replies, squeezing Ethan’s hips once. “With your skinny little waist and big blue eyes.”

Ethan just scoffs and drags his fingers through the dusting of dark hair covering Mark’s chest. “‘S that all I am to you?” he teases, mouth curling up in a smirk Mark wants to bite. “A pretty little twink?”

“Well, you _are_ pretty.” Mark drops a kiss on Ethan’s forehead and slides his hands further below his waistband, giving Ethan plenty of time to object. He doesn’t. “But … given that I don’t really know what a twink is, I can’t call you one in good conscience.”

“ … I can’t decide if that’s sweet or exasperating.”

“Can it be both?”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m gonna be dealing with both a lot?”

“Ah, you learn fast.”

Ethan’s head tips back with a joyful laugh, and Mark can’t resist any longer. He leans in at the same time Ethan does, and when their mouths connect, it feels how Mark’s always wanted kissing to feel. It’s not like every other kiss he’s had has been awful; they’re just blown out of the water by the bolts of lightning that strike Mark’s heart every time his lips meet Ethan’s. This level of intimacy, of emotion, shouldn’t be possible after such a short period of time, but the proof is right here, warm and breathing and beautiful in Mark’s arms.

When they break for air a few minutes later, Ethan whispers without opening his eyes, “I-I know we’ll need dinner at some point, but I kinda just wanna keep kissing you. Like, for the rest of the day.”

Mark groans and nods, dragging Ethan closer. “Best idea you’ve ever had,” he rumbles, deep and sonorous.

They don’t need words after that.

* * *

Sure enough, the rest of the afternoon and evening melt away in a midsummer daze of skin and mouths and hips and hands. It’s early February, but Mark swears he can smell fresh-cut grass and June rain every time Ethan sighs into his mouth. He makes it his mission to show Ethan the depth of his feelings without giving them a name, despite finding it harder and harder to hold back as the minutes turn into hours.

They start off standing, but wind up on Ethan’s worn couch when their knees weaken enough. Shifting positions is the only thing they break apart for — first it’s Ethan straddling Mark’s lap, then it’s Mark pressing Ethan against the cushions, then it’s the two of them lying side-by-side, breathing as one, their hearts beating to the same silent rhythm. It’s nothing but pure exploration; Mark discovers _exactly_ how sensitive Ethan’s neck and jawline are, and Ethan finds out that pressing his thumbs against Mark’s nipples while sucking at his pulse point produces the most embarrassing noises Mark’s ever made. In return, Mark takes his time memorizing the curves and planes of Ethan’s body in a new, impossibly more intimate way, marveling at the fact that he now has permission to.

 _If I do get home,_ his lust-frazzled mind thinks as he fits his fingers in the spaces between Ethan’s ribs, _I’m never gonna be able to stop touching him._

The sunlight beaming through the bay window turns from yellow to golden orange without either of them noticing, making its way across the room like a searchlight until it fades. By the time Mark realizes they’ve forgotten dinner, the only thing illuminating the room is the floor lamp in the far corner. Ethan’s shirt is gone, and he’s now lying on top of Mark, cradled securely in Mark’s strong arms and between his spread thighs. The feeling of their hips pressed together is more comforting than arousing, which surprises Mark, but he doesn’t linger on the thought too long in favor of counting the ridges in Ethan’s spine for the forty-eighth time. He’s gotten used to the feeling of narrow hips, calloused hands, and a flat chest against his own. It’s different, for sure, but not in a bad way. For being brand-new to the whole “kissing dudes” scene, Mark’s pretty confident he’s getting good at it.

Then again, if he’s good, Ethan is a fucking pro. He meets Mark kiss for kiss, breath for stuttered breath, and he doesn’t let up for a second. He kisses Mark like it’s his job, like he’s getting _graded,_ like he’s wanted to for much longer than four days. His fingers seem to know every hot spot on Mark’s body already, and he exploits this for all it’s worth — scratching Mark’s back, pulling his hair, tracing his fucking v-line like he’s making a detailed cutout in Photoshop. He looks and feels at home on top of Mark like this, his arms tucked under Mark’s shoulders as they kiss and kiss and kiss like no other timelines exist.

For a short while, even in Mark’s mind, they don’t.

Eventually, the bliss comes to a graceful halt as the grumbling of their stomachs gets too frequent to ignore. Mark drinks up one last life-affirming, soul-completing kiss before breaking away and dropping his head back against the throw pillow beneath it. Ethan collapses above him, panting and flushed, and nestles his face in the crook of Mark’s sweat-slick neck. They both definitely need showers now — Mark wonders briefly if he can convince Ethan to join him this time.

“I can’t believe we just made out for three hours,” Ethan pipes up after a minute, “and we didn’t even fuck once.”

His voice is hoarse and gravelly, sending a brief shock of desire through Mark’s empty stomach. But all Mark can do is chuckle and hide his face in Ethan’s thoroughly mussed hair. “Has it seriously been that long?”

“Yeah, dude, the clock says it’s almost six.” Ethan shifts against Mark to get more comfortable, his hands moving to rest between Mark’s shoulder blades. He huffs out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever kissed anyone for that long before.”

“Me neither.” Mark wraps his arms around Ethan’s waist and breathes in the salt-sweat musk of him, blinking up at the ceiling with tired eyes. It takes a few seconds, but he soon notices how blurry the light fixture is. “Are our glasses still in the kitchen?”

There’s a pause, then Ethan starts laughing again, his chest stuttering against Mark’s. “Oh god, I practically _threw_ mine,” he giggles. It’s the most perfect thing Mark’s ever heard. “I hope they aren’t broken, shit, we’re a mess.”

Mark can’t argue with that. He turns his head to kiss the shell of Ethan’s ear, then gently nuzzles him until he pulls back far enough to meet Mark’s eyes. His own are heavy-lidded and dark, fondness and trust swirling in their blue-green depths, and Mark is momentarily dragged in by their current. “Hi,” he murmurs, reaching up to push some hair off Ethan’s forehead.

“Hey.” Ethan plants a chaste kiss on the corner of Mark’s swollen mouth. “You’re kinda awesome, y’know that?”

Mark’s face floods with heat and he grumbles a bit, bumping his nose against Ethan’s. Ordinarily he’d put on his bravado act and agree with enthusiasm, but in this moment, he’s too enthralled to be anyone but his awkward, introverted, authentic self. “‘M gonna kiss you again if you don’t shut up,” he mumbles.

As he takes in more of Ethan’s face, Mark notices how red his chin is. _Beard burn._ “Oh no, I’m sorry,” he says, running his thumb lightly over the raw skin. Remorse seeps into his heart, momentarily overshadowing the bone-deep contentment he feels. “I haven’t shaved in almost a week. Forgot it would hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” Ethan replies. “It’ll be pretty much gone by tomorrow.” Holding Mark’s gaze, he kisses the pad of Mark’s thumb with his swollen lips and presses his cheek into Mark’s palm. “Then you can give it to me all over again.”

 _Jesus H. Christ._ “Oh, you bet I will,” Mark promises before pulling Ethan’s face down to meet his again. This kiss is softer, like a greeting after a long day at work, and it only lasts for a couple seconds. Still, it’s more than enough to make Mark’s heart sing.

 _This is where I’m supposed to be,_ Mark finds himself thinking as he playfully tickles Ethan’s sides until the younger man lets him sit up. _Tangled up on a couch with him. I think I could die happy now that I know what that’s like._

“Dinner” is put together quickly and consists of three-minute chicken ramen and Ritz crackers. It’s all Ethan has the patience for, evidently, because he keeps pausing to kiss Mark — his mouth, his forehead, his hickey-spotted neck. It’s a good thing they put their shirts back on after getting up, because if Mark had been faced with the sight of a shirtless, messy-haired, kiss-drunk, _debauched_ Ethan cooking for him, they would’ve ended up back on the couch. Even now, the bruised indentations of Mark’s teeth are peeking out from Ethan’s collar, and it’s just sinful. He finds his glasses on the counter and puts them on just to get a better look.

In true Mark-and-Ethan fashion, they only get to eat for a few minutes before they remember the computer they’d been setting up earlier. Ethan nearly chokes on a mouthful of ramen as he bolts from the kitchenette to his recording room, and Mark laughs so hard he starts hacking up a lung. He follows Ethan once he’s composed himself, pleased to find nothing went horribly wrong with the updates or installations while they were, uh. Distracted.

Once the final processes have been started and Ethan’s made sure the computer is set to shut down when they’re done, he and Mark finish their meager meals and return to the couch. They come across a cheesy Lifetime Christmas movie on TV and leave it on with the volume low, more interested in each other than the generic-straight-white couple dancing in the snow onscreen.

“So,” Ethan says as he pulls the now-familiar blanket over them and situates himself against Mark’s side. “In the kitchen earlier. That was really your first time with a guy?”

Mark blushes and tries not to read any judgment into the question. “Yep,” he replies. “As if it wasn’t obvious by the way I, like, _grabbed_ your dick through your jeans instead of … doing what you did.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” Ethan lifts up the blanket, then swings his legs up and across Mark’s. Mark’s heart jackhammers against his ribs as the younger man scoots even closer to him. “You were fine. Better than fine, actually. I’ve fantasized about — holy _shit,_ I can’t believe I’m actually telling you this — a-about doing that, with you, for a long time.”

“Yeah?” Mark wraps an arm around Ethan’s waist to pull him closer, almost tugging him the rest of the way into his lap. “That’s … god, I can’t really wrap my head around that.”

Ethan kisses Mark’s stubbled jaw and looks up at him with wide, curious eyes. “Why not?”

“Because if that’s true — if you felt like that before you went to PAX to meet me — then in my timeline, it’s gotta be the same.” Mark turns his head to bury his face in Ethan’s soft hair as he takes in his own words. “It happened before everything diverged.”

“Ssso that means … I must feel the same way where you’re from,” Ethan concludes. “Or at least, I did at one point.” One of his hands uncurls from where it’s held against his chest to rest on Mark’s, a steady, warm weight to keep them both grounded. “Huh.”

“Yeah.” Mark draws abstract shapes on Ethan’s side with his fingertips and stares blindly at the south wall of the apartment, lost in thought for a minute. He breathes in Ethan’s scent and is once again blown away by its familiarity. There’s so much he could be freaking out about, so much his mind could be blowing out of proportion, but the only thoughts in his head are of how content he feels right now. How warm and _right_ Ethan feels against him, how natural it is to hold him like this.

Ethan somehow picks up on Mark’s dilemma. “Is this weird for you?” he inquires, his warm breath making goosebumps break out over the sensitive skin of Mark’s neck. “Like, d’you feel like you’re … I dunno, cheating on ‘other me’?”

“I never got this far with the ‘other you,’” Mark reminds him.

“I know, but still.” Ethan sits up just far enough to meet Mark’s gaze. “I’d get it if you did think it’s weird. I know I’m not him.”

“That’s the thing, though. You _are_ him.” Mark moves the hand that’s been resting on Ethan’s hip to the side of his face. He traces a delicate cheekbone, stares in awe at those long, dark eyelashes, and falls a little more in love. “Until today, there was this version of you in my head I called ‘my Ethan’ — the one I’m more used to, the one I’ve worked with and known for years.”

Sighing softly, Mark looks down at Ethan’s hand on his chest. “But your hands are the same,” he murmurs. “And your eyes, and your laugh, and your smile, and your heart. Yes, you’ve had different experiences in this life that you didn’t have in my timeline, and they shaped you into who you are. But the _core_ of you — your creativity, your selflessness, everything I’ve always adored that made you my best friend — hasn’t changed at all.”

Mark takes Ethan’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing his palm. The emotion in Ethan’s sparkling eyes is too much for him to take in right now, so he focuses on memorizing the sparse pattern of freckles on Ethan’s knuckles. “I realized right before you kissed me that there’s only one you,” he concludes after a minute. “So I actually feel like I’m finally where I’m supposed to be. In any universe. Right here, with you.”

“Mark … ” Ethan gently tugs his hand out of Mark’s grasp and uses it to pull him in for an urgent kiss. Mark melts into it, holding Ethan as close as he can, and lets himself get lost for awhile.

When they break apart, panting and flushed, Ethan brushes a lock of hair off Mark’s forehead and nuzzles his nose. “Do you mean that?” It sounds like he’s almost afraid of the answer.

“Yes,” Mark replies without hesitation, kissing Ethan one more time just because. Then, unable to resist the opportunity for friendly ribbing, he adds, “I think the biggest difference is you have a personal trainer where I’m from, so you’re not quite as teeny tiny.”

“Teeny tiny?!” Ethan scoffs in mock outrage, shoving at Mark’s chest as he starts to laugh. “I lift _huge_ pots of boiling water and boxes of frozen meat every day at work! What, you’re more into muscle-bound twunks, then, you perv?”

“You keep throwing these terms around like I’m supposed to know what they mean!” Mark says through his own laughter. He starts tickling Ethan’s neck with one hand, holding him loosely in place with the other as he starts to shriek and squirm. “Not my fault you don’t work out, man!”

“Stop, stop!” Ethan shoves Mark’s hands away, gasping for breath and smiling so bright they almost don’t need the lamp. Grabbing Mark’s wrists, he slowly calms down and looks up at Mark with nothing but joy on his face and mirth in his eyes. He’s beautiful, captivating, _perfect,_ and Mark just has to kiss him yet again. He does, peppering Ethan’s cheeks and forehead with loving pecks as the younger man loops his arms around his neck and allows it.

“Seriously, though,” Mark says after another minute of giggling. “It wasn’t just your body I — ” _Fell for._ “ — became attracted to. It was pretty much everything else about you, too.” He rests his forehead against Ethan’s and closes his eyes, sighing as their breaths synchronize.

Ethan kisses the corner of Mark’s still-grinning mouth. “No one’s ever said anything like that to me before,” he whispers, like he’s afraid to admit it.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever known you like I do,” Mark posits. _Or felt the way I feel about you._

“I think you might be right.”

On the TV screen, the star-crossed lovers of the Lifetime movie kiss like they’ve wanted it their whole lives. On the couch, Mark kisses Ethan the same way, deep and thorough and heartfelt, once again pushing down every urge to blurt out how painfully in love he is.

In that moment, Mark makes a silent vow to himself: No matter what happens, or what Ethan does or doesn’t end up feeling for him, he’s going to enjoy every last moment of these next five days. He’s going to show Ethan exactly how loved he is, even if he has to do it without words.

If these are the last five days of his real life, Mark’s not gonna let them go to waste.

“Y-You’re an unfairly good kisser,” Ethan stammers breathlessly as the kiss breaks off a few minutes later. “Kinda hate you for it.”

Mark smirks and nips at Ethan’s puffy bottom lip. “I can live with that.”

“Hmm.” Ethan’s hands move from Mark’s unruly hair, to his shoulders, to the biceps slightly stretching the sleeves of his gray tee. “Kinda hate you for these, too,” he teases, squeezing gently. “Gamers aren’t supposed to be nice _and_ funny _and_ buff.”

“Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’,” Mark croons, flexing one arm exaggeratedly just to watch Ethan’s eyes widen a bit. “I weigh about twenty pounds less here — almost all muscle mass. I was going for that body builder look, even though I tell people I’m not.”

“Seriously? God, I wish I could see that.” Ethan maps Mark’s arms and shoulders with a hungry gaze. “How do I keep my hands off you where you’re from?”

“Simple — you don’t,” Mark says with a chuckle. He softens it by winding his arms around Ethan’s middle again. “You’re always hugging me and touching me, like you’re trying to find out what my limit is.”

“Probably because I am, dipshit.” Ethan kisses the side of Mark’s neck and traces the collar of his shirt with one finger, contemplative. “I get that I’m still getting over a bad breakup in your world, but seriously — you have to promise me if you get back there, you’ll go for it. Tell me how you feel. From what you’ve said, I’m almost positive you’ll get the response you want.”

Mark goes quiet at that. “If you get back there” is a really big “if.” Honestly, he hasn’t thought too much about what he’ll do about Ethan if he manages to break the curse — he mostly just wants to apologize for their fight. If he can even make Ethan want to speak to him again, let alone kiss him, he’ll count that as a victory.

He will try, though. After everything he’s been through these past few days — and everything he’s learned about Ethan today — Mark’s not sure he could go on normally without at least trying.

“Alright,” he says, but the confidence in his voice is weak.

Ethan doesn’t seem to notice. “Good,” he says, nosing at Mark’s chin. “‘Cuz if I were me — and I am — I’d be pretty pissed if I found out an alternate universe version of me got to fuck Markiplier when I haven’t even _kissed_ him yet.”

It’s so unexpected that Mark bursts out laughing without warning, hiding his reddening face in Ethan’s shoulder. “D-Does what we did in the kitchen even count as fucking?” he gasps between guffaws.

“I guess not technically,” Ethan responds, giggling right in Mark’s ear. Then his voice shifts to a deeper register and he pulls at Mark’s hair a bit. “But what we’re gonna do on this couch and in my bed at some point definitely will.”

Mark’s dwindling laughter is cut off by an almost-moan as a wave of arousal crashes over him. He can’t help but shiver, dragging Ethan closer and nipping at his earlobe. Fuck, when did Ethan get so sexually confident?

 _Eric,_ Mark recalls bitterly. _That lucky bastard._ No matter, though — by the time Mark’s had his way, Ethan won’t even remember his ex’s name. Or his own.

The conversation dies out in a haze of gentle yet possessive kisses. Not long after, they find themselves passively watching the beginning of a new cliché-addled Hallmark Channel concoction. Mark’s starting to get a little overheated under the weight of the blanket and the boy draped over him, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest. He thinks he could even fall asleep here if he let his eyes close for long enough.

He’s just about dozing off when Ethan’s soft, curious voice pipes up again. “If you think there’s only one me,” he asks, “would you say there’s only one of you, too? Even though the one in this universe seems to be a lot different than … well. You.”

Mark does have to think about that one for a minute. If he follows the same logic he did to reach his “the important parts of Ethan are the same, therefore he’s the same” conclusion, he’s not sure he can reach the same one for himself. All the things that make him who he is — his motivation, his dedication, his ambition, his creativity — seem to be practically nonexistent here, if his lackluster channel and departure from YouTube is any indication. If there’s any version of him in this timeline that Mark recognizes as himself, it’s the version from before PAX 2015. Meeting Ethan there had had much more of an impact than the minute-long interaction the previous year, and without it, his channel and his life had changed irrevocably.

Then again, Ethan’s life and channel had changed in the same way because he hadn’t met Mark. What _hadn’t_ changed was his spark, his desire and passion for creating. That’s what kept him from becoming unrecognizable to Mark.

Every time Mark’s passed a reflective surface over the past five days, he’s been faced with the reflection of a man he can’t bring himself to identify as.

“I’m not sure,” he answers finally, resting his cheek against the top of Ethan’s head. “There’s just so much about me in this timeline that I can’t come to terms with. I’m … jaded, and anxious, and completely uninspired. It seems like the only things I care about here are my dog and my girlfriend. Hell, I couldn’t even make myself get a haircut.”

“Hey, your longer hair wasn’t that bad,” Ethan chides. “But you’re probably right about the other stuff.” He taps his fingertips absently against Mark’s chest, a perfect counter-rhythm to the beating of his heart. “The last year or so before you quit, you didn’t really branch out into different types of content at all.”

“Yeah, like, that’s the thing. I could never see myself falling that far into boredom and, and _complacency.”_ Mark shakes his head and moves one hand to cover Ethan’s, interlocking their fingers. “And I know now that it’s all because of you. Shit, Ethan, I somehow worked up the courage to do a goddamn _musical number_ in a YouTube Red show last year. D’you have any idea how fucking terrifying that was?”

“Hang on, hang on. You did _what?”_ Ethan pulls back to stare at Mark, eyes wide and mouth gaping a bit dramatically. He seems to be glossing over the fact that Mark just credited him for his success. “You _sing?”_

Mark feels the familiar flutter of stage fright in his stomach at the mere thought. “I … dabble,” he says, looking away from Ethan’s delighted expression. “I messed around with guitar for a while in 2017, too. What, haven’t I ever sung in anything here?”

“Not since the Five Nights at Freddy’s musical! Mark! What the fuck, dude, you’ve gotta sing for me.” Ethan shoves at him playfully, morphing into an exited toddler before Mark’s very eyes. _“_ Please, please, pleeeeease!”

As endearingly annoying as Ethan’s pleading is, Mark still can’t resist it. “Oh, fine, whatever,” he grumbles, making a show of pushing Ethan off his lap and forcing himself to his feet. “But I have no idea what kind of shape these vocal cords are in, so this could get ugly.”

“I don’t care; I wanna hear it so bad!” Ethan sits criss-cross on the couch and pulls the blanket over his shoulders like a shawl. He’s beaming and looking up at Mark like something unimaginably spectacular is about to happen, but Mark’s not even sure he’ll be able to hit any notes.

There’s two or three songs Mark knows well enough to perform, but only one of them was written with his voice in mind. Clearing his throat, Mark starts tapping one bare foot on the hardwood floor and tries to hear the piano in his head. “This also involves some embarrassing dance moves,” he warns Ethan, who only looks more thrilled at the prospect.

With one more deep breath, Mark launches into it: _“The outside world recoils in fear / Thinkin’ if they slip up they’ll get locked up in here … ”_

It’s … rough, but it’ll work. Mark knows he’s blushing scarlet like he always tries not to when he sings in front of people, but Ethan’s watching him with rapt attention and a goofy smile, so he presses on. He gestures and struts around the coffee table, the ridiculous lyrics and overemphasized movements making Ethan laugh before the chorus even comes around. By the time it does, Mark has enough confidence to belt a little: _“I don’t wanna be freeee / Leave me in luxuryy-yyy … !”_

By the time he’s kicking his legs and waving an invisible cane around, Mark’s actually having fun. He sings through his laughter, watching Ethan watch him, and the rest of the world blurs at the edges. There’s nothing like making Ethan laugh, and he certainly is now, head nodding along to the silent music as he mouths the words. Mark’s riding the crescendo to his high note, not sure if he’ll be able to —

Wait.

Ethan’s _mouthing the words._

Mark stops singing mid-sentence. He freezes instantly, staring at Ethan in utter shock as his heart pounds. Ethan looks confused and a little concerned. “What?” he asks, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“You know the words,” Mark breathes, still gaping at Ethan. His legs feel unsteady all of a sudden, so he sits on the coffee table with a dull _thunk._ “Y-You were mouthing along.”

“ … I was?” Ethan blinks a few times, pressing a hand to the side of his head as if it hurts. “It sounded familiar. Who sings it?”

Mark points to himself with a shaking hand. “Me. I-I sang it in my YouTube Red show — the one about a heist I told you about? It — It doesn’t exist here.”

“Oh.” Ethan’s eyes fixate at a point over Mark’s shoulder for a few seconds while he thinks. “I could’ve sworn I’d heard it before. That’s really weird.”

Mark’s a heartbeat away from losing his mind. There’s simply no way Ethan could know the lyrics to “I Don’t Wanna Be Free” in this timeline. Is he remembering? Is this the moment Mark goes home?

_Does he love me?_

Suddenly, Ethan shakes his head a bit and says, “It’s gone. I thought I knew it for a minute, but … I can’t remember the music anymore.” His eyes meet Mark’s, curious and still worried. “Why’d that happen?”

 _Because there’s only one you,_ Mark’s heart whisper-screams even as it sinks to the pit of his stomach. _Because you_ do _know that song. Because you’re my Ethan._

_Because, by some miracle, you might’ve loved me for just a moment._

What was it Shelly had told him? _“His love for you is deep and real, and it only needs to be awakened to flourish”?_ It feels like a lifetime ago since Mark was sitting there in that shop, scared and alone and baffled by nearly everything she said, but the reality of her seemingly unrealistic words is starting to reveal itself.

 _“If he truly cares for you the way he appears to,”_ she’d explained, _“it won’t take much to open his eyes.”_

This is the perfect opportunity for Mark to tell Ethan the whole, unedited truth about his ticket home. He could come clean at last and get rid of the final suffocating weight on his chest, and maybe Ethan would understand why he waited so long to do it.

But. They’ve just had such a good day, and they’re both in a good mood — Mark would hate to be the one to bring it down, like he has so many times over the past few days.

It can wait another day.

“I-I don’t know,” Mark says finally, ignoring the poisonous hope worming its way through his chest. He moves from the coffee table to the couch, slipping back under the blanket beside Ethan. “The second day I was here — right before I came to your place, actually — I had dreams about PAX that I think were actually memories. Maybe … parts of our other selves are somewhere in us.”

Ethan hums, lost in thought for a minute. He reaches for one of Marks hands and studies it oddly closely, running his thumbs over Mark’s knuckles and taking in every detail. Mark’s about to ask him what’s going on when he looks up and murmurs, “Just ‘cuz you lost your way in this universe doesn’t mean you aren’t still you, y’know. I bet your hands are the same, too.”

It’s a strange deviation, but not an unwelcome one. Mark’s heart aches a little more and he interlaces their fingers. He’s not usually the poetic type, but his next words flow out of him without a second thought.

“As long as you’re holding them,” he says, “I don’t care if they are or not.”

Ethan sighs and leans in to kiss him, and Mark forgets about everything else for awhile.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t tell you how much of a relief it was to finally write that first kiss scene. This is another chapter i vividly remember writing, because i took like a week off from this fic after i finished it since this was the scene I’d been working up to for like 50K words!! 
> 
> Tomorrow’s chapter is another doozy ... keep those peepers peeled!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo lovelies! Ready for chapter seven?? 
> 
> I had a really long day — not bad, just long and tiring lol — so I’ll keep the author’s note here shorter. This is a longer chapter, and it contains talking, kissing, nightmares, singing, and smut. Plenty of smut. In fact, some parts of this chapter could be classified as pure PWP, but i promise there’s more to it than just that!!
> 
> !!!!IMPORTANT NOTE!!!! The very beginning of this chapter contains a brief reference to suicide. If that’s something you’d like to skip, just keep scrolling until the italicized section of text is over. 
> 
> That’s it from me tonight! Thanks again for all your lovely comments and kudos and every little bit of affection you’ve sent my way. It means more to me than you’ll ever know! <333
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

_Mark opens his eyes to a familiar ceiling._

_He blinks once, twice, then sits bolt upright in bed. He’s in his bedroom — his_ real _one — cocooned in his poofy white comforter and wearing a baggy Cloak t-shirt. Chica is curled up in her bed on the floor nearby, snuffling softly in her sleep, and the morning sun is just peeking through the drawn curtains over the window across the room._

_He’s home._

_Pure elation threatens to drown Mark as he lets out a triumphant shout. Flinging his bedsheets to the side, he scrambles to get out of bed and stumble to his dresser. His heart is pounding so hard it’s almost painful, but he ignores it as he digs a pair of workout shorts out of a drawer and puts them on. Fuck a real outfit — Mark has to get to Ethan’s house_ now. _He needs to see him, see that flash of recognition in his eyes, hear his exasperated but fond voice say, “Did you just roll out of bed? Your hair’s a fucking mess, bud.” Shit; his eyes are already burning with tears at the thought._

_Mark tosses a breathless “Bye Chica” over his shoulder and hurries out of the room, nearly falling to his death in his haste to get downstairs. His surroundings are all blessedly familiar — the kitchen, the foyer, even the dirty dishes on the dining room table. Mark looks in those areas first for his car keys, but when he doesn’t find them, he backtracks and heads to the living room._

_Then he stops in his tracks._

_There’s a figure standing motionless in the middle of the room, facing the glass sliding doors that lead to the backyard. Mark recognizes the person immediately, and his face splits in an ecstatic grin. “Ethan!”_

_No response. Ethan doesn’t acknowledge Mark’s presence at all, remaining stock-still with his back to his friend. He’s nothing but a silhouette; there’s something off about him, but Mark can’t place it._

_Mark tries again, stamping down the growing sense of dread rising in his throat. “Ethan, buddy, hey!” He jogs over to the younger man, stopping right behind him. He wants to reach out and pull Ethan in for the tightest hug of his life, but it feels like there’s an invisible force holding him back. His arms are suddenly glued to his sides._

_“Did you get what you wanted?”_

_Ethan’s voice is flat, emotionless, gray. He turns around slowly, most of his body still shrouded in shadow. The room is suddenly very dark, and very cold._

_Mark tries to back away, but he’s rendered immobile, frozen helplessly in place. He opens his mouth to speak, but his voice dies in his throat. Confusion sets in — didn’t he win? Isn’t Ethan supposed to love him?_

_“I said,” Ethan repeats, oceanic eyes flashing in the dying light as they flick up to meet Mark’s, “did you get what you wanted, Mark?”_

_“I … ” Mark’s throat is bone dry. There’s a high-pitched whining sound ringing in his ears, like a tea kettle going off, and it gets louder as Ethan takes a step closer._

_“You wished you’d never met me.” The room starts melting, picture frames dripping down the walls like candle wax. The soles of Mark’s bare feet start to burn, and he’s almost deafened by the sound of blood rushing in his ears. “You looked me in the face and said that to me. Didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU?”_

_Ethan takes one more step closer, and pure terror grips every nerve in Mark’s body as he takes in the now-clear image in front of him: Ethan’s hair is long and greasy, his skin pallid as though he hasn’t seen sunlight in a year. His cheeks and eyes are sunken in, his lips are dry and chapped, and his clothes are tattered, hanging off his skeletal frame. Mark knows that shirt — it should fit Ethan perfectly._

_None of that is the worst of it, though. What really, truly rattles Mark to his core is the sight of dried blood caking Ethan’s forearms, still seeping from deep, oozing gashes criss-crossing the grayish skin. Ethan’s hands are covered in it; he_ reeks _of it, and he reaches out to grab the sides of Mark’s head in a vice-like hold._

_“YOU SAID YOU HATED ME. YOU SAID.” Ethan’s voice booms around them as he digs his sticky fingertips into Mark’s skin. “YOU TOLD ME YOU REGRETTED EVERYTHING. SO I DID THIS FOR YOU. DO YOU LIKE IT?”_

_“No,” Mark wheezes, unable to breathe through the stench surrounding him and the crushing panic and guilt constricting his chest. “N-No, no, this isn’t — I didn’t want this, Ethan, I — ”_

_“YES YOU DID!” Ethan’s too-long fingernails sink into Mark’s temples, no doubt drawing blood. Mark cries out at the sudden shock of pain, staring in horror at the enraged, lifeless eyes only inches from his own. “YOU WISHED I WASN’T IN YOUR LIFE! YOU SAID! AND NOW I’M NOT!”_

_They’re not in Mark’s living room anymore. They’re in a pitch-dark void, alone and forgotten, with a beam of phantasmal light shining down on them from somewhere up above. It should be blinding, but all it does is illuminate the tears streaming down Ethan’s decaying cheeks. It’s far and away the worst thing Mark’s ever seen._

_“YOU’RE FREE OF ME, MARK,” Ethan whispers, but it still sounds like a roar in Mark’s ears. He claws at Mark’s hairline, bloody skin peeling up and getting stuck under his nails. “I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW.”_

_When he kisses Mark, he tastes like grave dirt._

* * *

Mark startles awake with a jolt, gasping into the pillow his face is buried in. He’s trembling and covered in a cold sweat, momentarily disoriented as his eyes get accustomed to the darkness. The digital clock on the nightstand in front of him reads 3:47 a.m., but he can’t remember seeing that clock before. _Where am I where am I where am I —_

As if on cue, a heavy arm flops over Mark’s side and a cold nose presses against the nape of his neck. “Mmmokay?” a sleep-drunk voice rasps in his ear.

Memories flood back into Mark’s mind in an instant — kissing Ethan on the couch, watching another Lifetime movie until they were both yawning, borrowing a spare toothbrush from Ethan’s travel stash. He remembers saying he’d sleep on the couch, only to have Ethan tell him, “Dude, you’ve already jizzed on me. We can share the fucking bed.”

Then they’d lain down together, noses inches apart, tracing the contours of each other’s faces with curious fingertips. Their legs had tangled together beneath the bedsheets, their bodies coiling around one another like a guitar string around a tuning key. The last thing Mark had seen before drifting off to sleep was Ethan’s tired smile, encouraging him to relax and rest.

When he hastily rolls over, he’s greeted by a similar sight: Ethan, eyes still closed, lightly dozing and looking completely content. His serene face should make Mark feel better, but it only exacerbates the anxiety he’s just woken up with.

Watching Ethan sleep suddenly reminds Mark where they are — in a cramped bedroom in a Maine apartment, only a few miles from the house Ethan grew up in. They had cheap ramen for dinner and spent the night watching shitty movies on Ethan’s hand-me-down couch. Hell, this is a _twin bed._

Everything comes crashing down around Mark like it’s his first morning here all over again. Ethan’s working a full-time, dead-end job on top of recording for hours on end almost every day for an audience one-tenth the size it should be. He’s happy, sure, but his immense potential is burning a hole in his chest, and he has nowhere to let it out. He’s missed out on so much — channel milestones, the tour, charity streams, projects, conventions, friendships, travel — and it’s all because Mark wished for it.

This is Mark’s fault. And since he has very little hope of making Ethan fall completely in love with him in the next four days — despite the oddity with the song earlier — Mark knows he probably won’t be able to fix it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling himself start to shake.

Ethan stirs a little, his knees knocking against Mark’s, and his eyes creak open. “Huh?”

“I-I’m sorry, this is all my fault.” Mark stares at him, swaddled in blankets and bathed in moonlight, and his heart breaks. “You’re stuck here because of _me,_ I did this to you, to _us,_ and I can’t take it back, I can’t — ”

“Whoa, hold on.” Ethan pushes himself up with one arm and reaches behind himself with the other to turn on the bedside lamp. His hair is sleep-ruffled and his eyes are squinting in the light, but he looks genuinely concerned. “What’re you talking about, Mark?”

A steadying hand comes to rest on Mark’s tense shoulder, and Mark breaks.

He can’t lie anymore.

“I love you,” he blurts, and tears he didn’t realize were building up spill over onto his cheeks. Saying those words to Ethan in a more-than-friendly context was supposed to be the happiest moment of Mark’s life, but instead he just feels hollow. He grips the pillow under his head and squeezes his eyes shut as Ethan’s expression changes from worried to stunned.

_This is it._

Sobbing and heedless of the consequences, Mark lets everything out at once: “I-I’m in love with you. I have been for months, and to get home I — it’s not friendship you need to feel for me, it’s love. You have to fall in love with me and then you’ll remember y-your other life and everything will reset. But I know — I-I know I can’t make you love me in four fucking days, I _know_ that, even if I love you so much it’s practically killing me. And I’m sorry I lied to you, I j-just didn’t know how to tell you because I don’t know how to tell someone they’re supposed to love me back when they don’t. I’m not even sure you love me where I’m from, s-so the ch-chances of you loving me here, where you don’t even know me, are practically fucking zero, a-and that means this is it. I fuckin’ wished your life away and in four days I’m not even gonna know who you fucking _are,_ oh god, oh my god I’m so sorry, Ethan, I-I’m sorry, I’m so — ”

His voice cracks and doesn’t recover, leaving him bawling into his tear-soaked pillow. He feels Ethan move closer to him before a pair of strong arms wrap tightly around him, pressing him against a warm, bare chest. Mark wants to shove Ethan away, wants to leave this bed and this apartment and waste away in his hotel room across town until his timer runs out, but he doesn’t have the strength. Instead, he lets go of the pillow and shifts until he’s holding Ethan just as fiercely. He’s angry at himself for crying and making Ethan pick up his broken pieces _yet again,_ but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

“S-Sorry, I’m so sorry,” he chokes out against Ethan’s neck, a hopeless mantra. “So so so sorry … ”

“Sssh,” Ethan soothes, pressing a kiss to the top of Mark’s head. Mark’s pretty much lying on top of him now, trembling like an addict jonesing for a fix. “It’s okay, Mark, ssh, just — ”

“No, no it’s _not_ okay.” Mark shakes his head and sniffles loudly. “You deserve so much, so much _more_ than this, we _both_ do, a-and I ruined everything.”

“Stop.” Ethan loosens his grip around Mark and gently pushes him back a little so they can lock eyes. His face is unreadable, but those oceanic eyes almost look mournful. For a moment he seems to be readying himself to say more, but he opts to kiss Mark instead, firm and unyielding.

The kiss changes from comforting to heated after a minute or so. _Bad idea, bad bad idea,_ Mark’s brain screams at him even as he starts licking urgently into Ethan’s mouth, starving for whatever he can get. His original holdups about moving beyond kissing with Ethan in this timeline flood into his head in a rush — the idol-and-fan dynamic, the incongruity of their feelings for each other. He’s let his resolve slip once already, and even though he doesn’t regret it, he knows it only makes this whole situation more complicated. And now that Mark’s confirmed he doesn’t see Ethan as some kind of desperate hookup or friend-with-benefits, well. Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The thing is, though, Mark just doesn’t care anymore. He can’t afford to when he’s pretty certain he only has a few days left to spend with the love of his life. So he kisses Ethan with abandon, not allowing himself to overthink it as Ethan’s hands slip under his sweat-damp shirt.

“Do — ” Ethan breaks the kiss to pant against Mark’s lips, eyes hooded and body tense like he’s barely holding himself back. “Do you wanna — ?”

“Please,” Mark gasps, back arching as Ethan’s questing fingers trace the scar on his stomach. Guilt and anxiety aren’t going anywhere — he’ll have time to wallow in them later. This right here is more important. “Anything, anything, _Ethan_ … ”

Mark’s shirt is off three seconds later. Ethan uses it to gently blot Mark’s tear-streaked cheeks before dropping it on the floor and nudging Mark onto his back. He straddles Mark’s thighs, pressing him into the squeaky mattress, and props himself up on his elbows. As soon as Mark is panting and pliant beneath him, Ethan leans down to trace Mark’s collarbone with his teeth, sending electric jolts through every cell his lips touch. Mark tips his head back against his pillow and sighs, raking his nails lightly down Ethan’s already scratch-covered back. He isn’t even that hard yet, still wrangling his emotions into submission, but Ethan’s mouth is doing wonders to get him worked up.

Truthfully, Mark’s surprised at how unaffected Ethan seems by his bombshell confession, but he figures he can dwell on that more when Ethan isn’t slowly plucking his seams out stitch by stitch.

“I’m here,” Ethan whispers, his breath tickling the sparse hair covering Mark’s chest. “I’m right here, not goin’ anywhere.” Pressing a kiss to the constellation of freckles decorating Mark’s left collarbone, he drags one hand up Mark’s ribs to pluck at a dusky nipple.

Mark twitches, biting his lip as a shock of heat bolts south from that point of contact. “Mmm — ”

Ethan’s keen eyes flick up, a spark of filthy inspiration igniting in them. “Yeah?” He does it again, pressing a little harder with a calloused thumb, and smirks at the answering whine he receives. “Thought you were joking all those times you said these were sensitive.”

“Nope,” Mark grits out, digging his nails into Ethan’s hips. It’s getting harder to breathe the more turned on he gets, and they’ve barely started. “Thought you got the memo earlier, o-on the couch.”

Ethan looks both awed and devious. “Maybe I just needed more evidence.” Keeping his gaze level with Mark’s, he opens his mouth, leans down an inch or two, and laves his pink tongue slowly over one nipple while his sneaky fingers pinch the other one.

Admittedly, Mark hasn’t had sex — unclothed, _horizontal_ sex, that is — in about five months. It makes sense that some of his more neglected nerve endings would feel like they’re on fire at the lightest touch. But that can’t be the only reason Mark feels like he’s about to combust at the mere _sight_ of Ethan _licking his chest,_ never mind the incendiary physical sensations that accompany it. It’s so much. Mark throws his head back and _moans,_ unabashed, fumbling for a grip on the back of Ethan’s head to gently hold him in place. When Ethan does it again, latching on and _sucking_ this time, all Mark can do is spasm beneath him and beg wordlessly for more.

By the time Ethan’s satisfied with the attention he’s paid both of Mark’s poor, overstimulated nips, Mark is a sweaty, wheezing mess. He slips his shaking hands beneath the waistband of Ethan’s skin-tight boxer briefs and meets Ethan’s eyes, suddenly desperate for the one thing he’s tried not to think about too hard since this thing between them started. Licking his dry lips, he digs his fingertips into the soft flesh of Ethan’s ass and whispers, “Off?”

Ethan whines in the back of his throat and leans down to press a wet, hasty kiss to Mark’s lips. “Only if you’re sure,” he replies, barely audible over the sound of their heavy breathing and the blood rushing in Mark’s ears.

Yeah, the idea of being naked in a bed with another guy is intimidating to Mark. It has been since he first realized he might want to try being more than friends with Ethan. But now that Ethan’s here, flushed and gorgeous and hard against Mark’s hip, some of that fear melts away. Mark nods, cautiously confident, and rolls his hips up against Ethan’s once. “I-I’m sure. Wanna see you, please.”

That’s apparently all the encouragement Ethan needs. He presses a kiss to Mark’s neck before sitting up to tug his boxers down and off.

And. There it is. Ethan’s dick, long, reasonably thick, and flushed red. Mark openly stares for a few seconds — he’s seen it before, sure, but never hard and leaking. Certainly never hard _for him._ It should freak him out, and maybe it does a little, but mostly it just makes his mouth water. He wants to touch, wants to taste and feel and savor every inch of it. _Okay, yeah, I’m definitely not straight._

Unfortunately, all he can manage to say is, “Holy fuck.”

Blinking, Ethan barks out a laugh and fondly rolls his eyes. “Not exactly the reaction I expected,” he says as he leans back down to nip at Mark’s stubbled jaw. “But I’ll take it.” His hands find their way to Mark’s waistband and pluck inquisitively, not trying to push. “Can I see you, too?”

There’s a couple heartbeats of hesitation before Mark nods. “Y-Yeah.” God, this is really happening, isn’t it?

Ethan smiles down at him and presses a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth before leaning back again. Without relinquishing his perch on Mark’s thighs, he somehow gets Mark’s boxers off and onto the floor with his own.

Yep. It’s really happening.

Mark kind of expects Ethan to gawk at his cock for a few seconds, if only out of fairness, but the younger man doesn’t even glance down. He just covers Mark’s body with his own, wrapping him up in warmth and safety as he kisses every last doubt and insecurity out of his mind. Mark sighs into Ethan’s mouth and holds him close, hands pressed to the small of Ethan’s back as they kiss and kiss until time is only a distant memory.

Once they’re both breathless and aching for more, Ethan breaks the kiss to pull back and finally take in all of Mark. His eyes go wide as they skim over Mark’s heated skin, his hands leaving no patch untouched. “Jesus Christ, Mark,” he whispers, hunger and wonder dueling in his eyes as he brushes his knuckles lightly along the length of Mark’s cock. “So fucking hot. Still not sure if I’m dreaming or not.”

Mark’s hips twitch up towards Ethan’s cautious touch and he swallows hard, resting his hands on the pillow beneath his head. He’s completely laid out for Ethan, eager and willing despite still trying to calm his racing heart. “Not dreaming,” he rasps, fighting off horrific images from his earlier nightmare as they flash through his mind. “‘M right here.”

“I know.” Ethan leans down for one more kiss before adjusting his position, resting more of his weight on Mark. He tucks one arm beneath Mark’s right shoulder, propping himself up on that elbow, and drags his other hand slowly down Mark’s sternum. “Gonna try something,” he murmurs, leveling Mark with a searching gaze. “Tell me if it’s — if you don’t like it, or it feels bad, okay?”

Mark nods, barely grasping what Ethan’s saying through the fog of lust clouding every one of his senses. “O-Okay,” he says before looping his arms around Ethan’s neck.

Ethan huffs out a nervous breath, then brings his free hand up to his mouth and licks his palm a couple times. That sight alone is enough to make Mark whine.

But when Ethan drops his hips down against Mark’s, reaches between them, and bundles their cocks together in his hand, Mark’s mind goes completely blank.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. It’s a little weird for the first few seconds, but when Ethan’s hand starts to move and his thumb flicks over the head of Mark’s dick, Mark can’t believe he ever lived without this. His toes curl under the bunched-up bedsheets and he practically _convulses,_ heat and friction and need overwhelming him all at once. _“Oh!”_

“Hmm?” Ethan’s hand freezes mid-stroke, and Mark wants to cry again. The younger man looks down at him, lips parted and shoulders tense. “Bad?”

Shaking his head frantically, Mark yanks Ethan down for a desperate kiss. “So good,” he gasps, thrusting once into Ethan’s grip and shivering. “Don’t stop, d-don’t ever fucking stop, _please — ”_

Ethan groans against his lips and it’s the hottest thing Mark’s ever heard. “Never.”

Mark does his best to participate, tugging on Ethan’s hair and mouthing at the hickeys he’d left on Ethan’s neck earlier, but he barely has enough brainpower to whimper Ethan’s name every few seconds. The emotional rollercoaster he’s been riding for the past few days is reaching a peak — he can almost hear the mechanical _chk-chk-chk_ of the cars inching up the sloped track, crawling towards a summit so high it’s obscured by clouds.

But just like any rollercoaster, where there’s a steep climb, there’s a steeper drop. And Mark isn’t sure how well he’s belted in.

Before he can get too lost in the metaphor, Mark’s snapped back to the moment by Ethan’s voice in his ear: “God, Mark, _Mark,_ f-fuck … ” He sounds like he can’t believe this is happening, and Mark can feel his strokes starting to falter. He can also feel every vein in Ethan’s cock pressed snug against his own, every swirl of Ethan’s fingerprints against his hypersensitive skin, every drop of precome slicking the way as Ethan jacks them harder, faster, tighter — _fuck fuck fuck._ Mark isn’t sure when he started writhing, but he can’t seem to hold himself still as a familiar heat starts to pool in his lower stomach.

Even though he’s dizzy and overwhelmed and spluttering mindless noises with every other breath, Mark can still understand when Ethan gasps against his cheek a minute later, “‘M close, so close, o-oh god — ” Mark can feel how true that statement is, suddenly very aware of the way Ethan’s cock is throbbing and twitching against his own. It’s the sexiest thing Mark’s ever experienced.

Swallowing hard, Mark grasps at the few remaining straws of sanity and focus left in his brain and worms a hand between them to grab Ethan’s frantic wrist. Ethan’s hand stills instantly, but he jolts and sobs against Mark’s neck, fucking forward into his still-tight grip. “Mark — ?”

Mark gently pulls Ethan’s head back by his hair, just far enough so their foreheads meet. He takes a couple seconds to catch his breath, then stares into Ethan’s almost-black eyes and nuzzles his nose. “Let me,” he says, purposely pitching his voice an octave deeper. It has the desired effect — Ethan melts against him and _keens,_ hips jerking forwards once.

“Oh my god,” Ethan whines, closing the scant distance between their mouths to kiss Mark urgently. He takes his hand away from their cocks and braces himself above Mark on both forearms, his heaving chest now pressed flush against Mark’s. Slurring a little, he mutters against Mark’s lips, “Y-You can do whatever y’want if you use that voice again.”

Humming, Mark nips at Ethan’s lips a couple more times before wrapping his arms around Ethan’s waist and flipping them over. It’s a small bed, so he’s careful not to send them rolling onto the floor as he gets Ethan situated against the pillows. When that’s accomplished, Mark pushes himself up to look down at the immaculate person beneath him and is struck utterly speechless: Ethan’s looking up at him like he’s some kind of god, and his cheeks are stained with a delectable pink blush that spreads to his lean, pale chest. He’s panting and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his hair is sticking up in a million different directions, and his dick is heavy and dark with blood between his spread legs, leaking steadily against his stomach.

There’s about three dozen things Mark wants to do to Ethan in that moment, but he settles on leaning down to kiss his sternum reverently. A melodramatic speech about love and friendship and gratitude is writing itself in his head, but Mark stores it away for later in favor of getting back to the task at hand.

“M-Mark,” Ethan begs, arching his back and reaching up to bury his hands in Mark’s own ruined hair. “Touch me, _please.”_

“I’ll do my best,” Mark rumbles, keeping his voice in that low register Ethan seems to go feral for. With one more kiss to Ethan’s gorgeous red mouth, he takes a deep breath and wraps his right hand around Ethan’s weeping cock.

The angle is unfamiliar, and the mindfuck he briefly experiences at the sensation of fully touching another man’s dick for the first time isn’t insignificant, but he negates all that in favor of doing his best to make Ethan feel good. His first couple strokes are clumsy and uneven, but he gets a decent rhythm going after a few seconds and feels a surge of pride at the desperate way Ethan squirms beneath him. “Yeah, yeah, _oh,_ Mark,” Ethan grits out, squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip so gorgeously. “I — faster, f-faster — ”

Mark happily obliges, speeding up his strokes and squeezing rhythmically. He tucks his face against Ethan’s neck and latches on, sucking at an existing hickey until the bruise is the size of a silver dollar. Ethan cries out and clings tighter to him, his blunt nails digging into Mark’s shoulders. The quick spikes of pain are enough to make Mark let out an answering moan, and he drags his own straining dick against Ethan’s hipbone a couple times.

“So good, Ethan,” Mark purrs, scraping his teeth over Ethan’s pulse point. “So good, wanted this for so long, and you’re better than I ever dreamed.”

Ethan makes a crazed noise and yanks on Mark’s hair again. “Fu-uck — !” Hooking one leg around Mark’s waist to give himself more leverage, he starts thrusting into Mark’s increasingly confident grip. He’s trembling and gasping and making this high-pitched, breathy, _awesome_ sound every time Mark’s thumb digs into his slit, and Mark’s halfway to an aneurysm by now.

“Can’t believe I get to do this.” Mark pulls back to watch Ethan’s face as he falls apart, not wanting to miss a moment. “Open your eyes, Eth.”

It seems to take some effort, but Ethan manages to force his eyes open a couple seconds later. They’re feverish, only half-focused on Mark above him. _“Mark,”_ he pleads, and the sound goes straight to Mark’s cock.

 _“Fuck,_ I can’t wait to make you come,” Mark says even as he momentarily lets go of Ethan. Ethan makes a noise like he’s about to explode, then repeats it even louder when Mark takes them both in his hand and picks up where Ethan left off. The musk of sex and the wet, obscene sounds of his fingers stroking their precome-slicked cocks fill the room; if Mark wasn’t _intimately_ aware of the source, it would be a turn-off.

“I-I wanna see it,” Mark rambles, unable to keep from fucking into his own fist. “I wanna see you come again, Eth, w-wanna feel it get all over my hand, all over my dick, c’mon, come for me, _come_ — ”

 _Yikes._ Mark’s never said anything like _that_ before, but it does the trick. Ethan’s eyes slam shut again and his control finally snaps. “Fuck, oh, fuck, ooh f — ah, ah, Mark, _ah!”_ Back bowing so far it looks painful, Ethan arches up off the mattress and comes with a pornographic moan, dousing Mark’s fist and both their stomachs in his release. The sensation of his cock pulsing against Mark’s is almost too much for Mark to handle, but he does his best to hold back just a little longer and milk Ethan through it, if only for the chance to listen to Ethan cry out and watch him shiver and writhe like he’s being paid to.

The next thing Mark’s dazed, lovesick mind registers is Ethan whimpering pathetically and swatting at his hand. “S-Stop, too much.” Mark lets go at once, then lets out a pained groan a moment later at the loss of friction. He’s so close he can taste it, can feel it just barely out of reach, and his forehead drops against Ethan’s as the room spins around him.

“Please,” he whispers, hitching his hips forward without meaning to. His cock is throbbing, covered in Ethan’s come, and so hard it hurts; _god,_ Mark doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life. “P-Please, I — ”

“Ssh.” Ethan’s hand is wrapped around him again not two heartbeats later. “I’ve got you.”

Mark squeezes his eyes shut and _wails_ as he starts fucking into Ethan’s tight, sweat-slick fist. “Oh, oh, oh, Ethan,” he sobs, not even feeling the tears starting to trail down his cheeks. “E-Ethan, Eth, fuck, mm _mmm_ — ”

Before Mark can even react, Ethan’s flipped them over again, leaving Mark panting and sweating and sprawled on his back. Without missing a beat, Ethan starts jacking Mark fast and rough. “C’mon, Mark,” Ethan says, grazing his other palm just barely over one of Mark’s nipples. “I’m right here. Want you to come for me.”

Then he bends down, fits his swollen lips around Mark’s nipple, and sucks hard at the same time his thumb catches on Mark’s slit.

 _“Fuck!”_ Mark throws his head back and feels the wave cresting. He grips the pillow beneath his head so tight his hands hurt. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, yes _yes don’t stop don’t stop don’t_ — oh!”

With one final cry of Ethan’s name, Mark comes harder than he thinks he ever has. It’s an avalanche, a car crash, the first moment of free fall from the peak of Diamondback at King’s Island. His vision goes stark white as he tosses his head to the side and moans ceaselessly, thrusting up into Ethan’s hand for as long as he can.

This feeling — the feeling of ecstasy, of release, of having the one person he’s ever loved with every single part of himself touch him and care for him so perfectly — is transcendent. It’s as deep, as unknowable, as inexplicable as the cold depths of the ocean Mark fears so much, and every bit as terrifying.

All Mark can do as he rides out the devastating aftershocks is breathe and try to memorize how nice Ethan’s voice sounds as he whispers encouragement and comfort into Mark’s skin. Mark’s grip on the pillow slackens eventually and his hands go limp on either side of his head, rendered momentarily numb. Chest heaving and head spinning, he keeps his eyes closed and zeroes in on the feeling of Ethan’s lips marching from his chest, to his throat, to his tear-stained cheeks. The feather-light touch is the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence, and he holds on as tight as he can.

It takes a few minutes, but Mark’s puffy eyes finally crack open. The first thing he sees is Ethan’s face hovering a few inches above his own, smiling warmly, and it’s beautiful. _Ethan_ is beautiful, and even though Mark wants to pull him down for a happy kiss and fall asleep tangled up together, he can’t bring himself to. Everything he’d felt after waking up from his nightmare comes rushing back at the sight of Ethan’s bottomless eyes, and his own well up again in a matter of seconds.

_Here comes the drop._

“I love you,” Mark whimpers, utterly unable to contain the feeling any longer. His hands, helpless and unsteady, come up to frame Ethan’s face. “I love you so much, and I’m sorry. I don’t wanna lose you. I d-don’t wanna live without you, Eth, I _can’t,_ I — I-I’m — ”

He’s unraveling again, words slurring and tears clouding his vision, but he still sees when Ethan’s smile fades. It’s clear Ethan is at a loss; Mark sobs once and opens his mouth to apologize, but he’s cut off by Ethan enveloping him in a tight, warm embrace. They’re both covered in sweat and jizz but neither of them cares — Mark wraps his arms around Ethan’s middle and holds him as close as he can, crying near-silently into the crook of Ethan’s neck.

“I’m sorry.” It’s Ethan’s turn to repeat the words over and over as he eases himself down beside Mark, never letting go of him. “I’m sorry, Mark, I’m so sorry, I’m here, it’s okay … ”

Mark would ask what Ethan’s apologizing for, but he already knows. It’s something he’s known deep down for days now, even before his plane landed: No matter who they are to each other in Mark’s timeline, no matter how well they hit it off right away upon meeting here, no matter how close they manage to get … Ethan’s only human. He can’t fall in love with someone after only knowing them for nine days. That’s not how love _works._ Even though Shelly said the amulet wouldn’t have made this happen if it was impossible, Mark knows it is. And it’s clear by the way Ethan’s starting to tremble in Mark’s arms that he knows, too.

This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a goddamn Nolan movie. Four days from now, Mark and Ethan will be strangers again, and there’s nothing either of them can do about it.

Squeezing Ethan even tighter, Mark chokes out the final secret he’s been keeping from both of them: “I’m s-scared.”

Ethan makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat and kisses Mark’s temple blindly. “Me too,” he whispers, sniffling a little. “But … we’re together now. That’s the important thing. We still have each other, for now.”

Despite how mournful Ethan’s words are, they bring Mark a strange level of comfort. His silent sobs taper off into hiccups, then uneven, shuddering breaths as he loses himself in the sensation of Ethan’s acres of bare skin against his own.

They may have four more nights ahead of them, but when Ethan pulls the bedsheets up over their lower halves and kisses Mark’s forehead, it still feels like a goodbye.

* * *

Let it be known that on February 8, 2020, Mark Edward Fischbach experienced his first bout of marathon sex.

Yes, it happened in an alternate timeline. No, it didn’t last a whole day. But goddamn it, it still counts.

It very well could have lasted a whole day if he and Ethan hadn’t woken up at noon. They don’t talk much at first, the events and revelations of the night before still thick in the air, but they do share a shower after Ethan strips the ruined sheets off his bed.

Mark is determined to keep the shower PG-13, at most. But the moment Ethan’s nimble fingers start shampooing his hair, the rating spikes to NC-17 pretty fast. He ends up pressing Ethan against the slippery tile wall and jerking him off, slow and methodical, memorizing all the little twists and touches that make him come apart the fastest. Ethan is more than happy to return the favor, which Mark is certainly grateful for, even though he almost falls on his ass when his knees give out after Ethan bites his neck.

Breakfast — if it can even be called that at 1 p.m. — is cold cereal and toast. They huddle together on the living room couch as they eat and finally talk things out: Mark tells Ethan the whole story behind the amulet’s meaning, its power, and everything Shelly had told him at the shop in L.A., while Ethan assures Mark that he doesn’t blame him for fudging the truth.

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling,” he says, eyes full of sympathy and regret. “I really am sorry. I wish I could — ”

“I know what you’re gonna say, and no,” Mark interrupts softly. “I swore to myself my first day here that no matter what, I wouldn’t try to trick you or manipulate your feelings for me in any way. I don’t want you to force yourself to feel something you don’t, because it’s not fair to you and it probably won’t even work.”

“I know, I know.” Ethan looks down at his almost-empty cereal bowl and stirs the last few Cheerios around with his spoon, dejected. “I just … I do care about you, Mark, I _do,_ a whole fucking lot, and I wish that made a difference.”

Mark sighs, pressing his shoulder a little more firmly against Ethan’s. “It does,” he says. “To me. I never thought I’d get to even _kiss_ you in my lifetime, let alone … y’know.”

“Yeah.” Ethan blushes faintly and turns to look back at Mark. He’s smiling that special little smile Mark only just realized is reserved for him and him alone; it eases the pressure of grief on his heart slightly whenever he sees it. “So I think the only thing we can do now is just. Enjoy the time we have left, make the most of it.”

“You mean live like we’ll remember it in a week?” Mark can’t help but return that smile. It’s a nice thought, if a little naïve, but he can’t think of a better alternative. “I think I’d be okay with that.”

Ethan kisses him then, sweet and chaste, and Mark feels something inside himself relax. He’s still scared and exhausted and so heartsick his chest aches constantly, but he knows Ethan’s right. If these are the last few days they have together, they shouldn’t be shrouded in sadness and anxiety. Mark isn’t sure he can just start pretending things are normal, but he can try to stop being so hyper-aware that they aren’t. As long as he has Ethan, he’ll be alright.

And with that realization, Mark’s vexed soul exhales. There’s a certain serenity, he supposes, in accepting the inevitable.

“Just so you know,” Ethan says when the kiss breaks off, “I’m not totally giving up hope quite yet. I did remember that song you sang yesterday, even if it only lasted a minute. That has to mean _something,_ right?”

Mark does hold that moment dearly in his broken, beaten heart. But his realist brain won’t allow him to cling to hope too tightly anymore. “I think it means you really do care about me,” he concedes, pressing his lips to Ethan’s forehead. “For now … I think that’s all I can let myself believe.”

With a nod and a reluctant sigh, Ethan kisses Mark again. “Okay. I get that.”

After they’ve cleaned up from breakfast, Mark decides to drive back to the hotel and check out. Making the most of whatever time they have left means spending as much of it together as possible, and Mark can’t fathom spending another night in that cold, lonely room by himself. He’s also almost out of clean clothes, and Ethan has an in-unit washer and dryer.

The aforementioned marathon sex begins shortly after he returns to Ethan’s apartment from this errand. He sets his suitcase down inside the door, kicks off his shoes, and is immediately accosted by a lanky brunette gamer.

“Missed you,” Ethan murmurs against Mark’s neck, hugging him like they haven’t seen each other in weeks. Inhaling deep, he tucks his cold nose against Mark’s pulse point and nuzzles. “You smell good.”

“I used your soap, you weirdo,” Mark teases even as he holds Ethan tight around the waist. “So you just complimented yourself. The _narcissism_ — truly unparalleled.” His eyes slip closed for a moment as he melts in Ethan’s arms.

“So what?” Ethan pulls back till he’s nose-to-nose with Mark, a challenge glowing in his eyes. “You gonna punish me for it?”

Arousal slams into Mark like a truck. Fuck, but no one’s ever turned him on like Ethan does. Digging his fingertips into Ethan’s lower back, he growls, “Don’t give me any ideas, buddy.”

Ethan whines a little and brushes his lips just barely over Mark’s. “That fucking _voice_ of yours is giving me plenty of ideas.”

“Hmm.” Mark’s hands shift from Ethan’s back to his ass, boldly squeezing as he brings their hips together. There’s an unexpected but definitely not unwelcome development in Ethan’s black sweats, and Mark feels an answering one stir in his own. Their activities in the shower suddenly feel like they happened days ago. “Care to share with the class?”

“Glad to.” Ethan leans in, Mark meets him halfway, and things get a little hazy from there.

It doesn’t take long for them to wind up naked on Ethan’s bed, kicking most of the clean sheets and blankets to the floor within five minutes. Their clothes were shed in a haphazard trail through Ethan’s living room to the bedroom, which is a phenomenon Mark always thought Hollywood made up to use in cliché rom-coms. Actually, a lot of what’s happening right now — hands roaming, mouths exploring, limbs going weak — feels cinematic. All Mark can do in the midst of it is hold tight to Ethan and kiss him like he has all the time in the world to.

Kissing Ethan becomes a bit more difficult, however, when he eventually breaks away and nudges Mark onto his back. Mark is powerless to do anything as Ethan shuffles down the bed, situates himself between Mark’s spread thighs, and sucks his cock down without a word. Lightning crackles up Mark’s spine as he throws his head back against the pillows, shouting at the ceiling. _Fuck,_ it’s been ages since someone blew him — Amy had never been the biggest fan of it, which was fine — and it’s almost a sensation overload when Ethan wraps a sure hand around the few inches he can’t take and starts stroking, firm and steady. Mark glances back down at him, takes in the watering eyes and swollen red lips stretched around his dick, and moans so loudly he’s afraid Ethan will get a noise complaint.

It’s so obvious from the expert way Ethan bobs his head and swirls his tongue that he has experience in this. If Mark wasn’t the one currently benefitting from that experience, he might drive himself crazy wondering how many times Ethan’s done this in this timeline. At the end of the day, though, it doesn’t matter — _they,_ whoever they are, had all been moronic enough to leave Ethan. They don’t deserve to be thought of.

It only takes a few minutes of Ethan teasing his balls and near-gagging on his cock for Mark to come, hard and riotous, down Ethan’s waiting throat. Ethan milks him through it, swallowing every drop until a whimpering, shivery Mark gently pulls him back by his hair.

After that, Mark’s pretty much satisfied. But the moment he sees the dark, urgent hunger in Ethan’s color-shifting eyes, he knows this is far from over.

Returning the favor is the best way Mark can think of continuing, but he balks a little when he finally finds himself face-to- … well, _penis,_ with Ethan’s dick. Biting his lip nervously, he looks up at where Ethan’s propped himself against the headboard and says, “I have literally no idea what I’m doing, just so you know.”

Ethan runs a soothing hand through Mark’s tousled hair. “It’s alright,” he assures, and _god,_ he sounds breathless already. “The, uh — I think the visual alone is gonna be enough to get me off, honestly. I-I may or may not’ve had this dream before. Several times.”

Mark’s cheeks flare with heat as he presses his face into Ethan’s palm. “Are you serious?”

“Hell yeah, dude. Remember that bi awakening I talked about yesterday, the one before Eric?” Mark nods and ignores the pang of jealousy he feels in his gut at the mention of that lucky sumbitch. “It was you. Your smile and your laugh and … you. I told you, I’ve thought about this for years.”

 _Jesus. So long …_ Mark makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and kisses Ethan’s stomach, reveling in the goosebumps that rise in the wake of the touch. He isn’t sure if the heaviness he feels in his chest is grief or excitement. There’s dozens of things he could say, but he settles for, “I hope I can measure up to your expectations, then.”

“Mark.” Ethan tilts Mark’s chin up, cranes down, and presses an unapologetic kiss to his mouth. “You measured up the moment I met you.”

Something behind Mark’s ribs splinters a bit at that. He meets Ethan’s tender, adoring gaze and tries to discern if Ethan even understands how those words sound in his ears. They seem to echo across timelines, across universes, like a homing beacon. Mark can’t linger on them, though — he just stamps down the ever-present guilt and longing and touches his lips to Ethan’s skin again.

Turns out dick sucking is a lot harder than girls in porn make it look. Mark knows his gag reflex isn’t exactly weak, so he’s aware of one of his limits right off the bat. Ethan isn’t gigantic — he’s not quite as thick as Mark, though he might be a tad longer — but having a penis this close to your face would be intimidating no matter its size, Mark figures. Taking a deep breath, he licks the palm of his right hand and starts slowly jacking Ethan off. “Tell me what to do,” he purrs, kissing the near-translucent skin of Ethan’s inner thigh.

“Oh god.” Ethan’s teeth dig into his lower lip as he tangles a hand in Mark’s hair, gripping firmly but not aggressively. “Um — teeth, watch your teeth. T-Try to breathe through your nose. And if it’s too much, you can stop, I won’t force you. Ever.”

As sweet as that is, it sparks a flare of that old indignation in the back of Mark’s brain, and he shakes his head. “I can do this,” he insists, staring at the glistening, blood-dark head of Ethan’s cock. His tongue flicks out to moisten his lips on instinct. “I _want_ to do this. Just … guide me a little.”

Ethan lets out a shuddering breath and his cock twitches. “O-Okay,” he whispers, petting Mark like he used to pet Chica. “I’ll try, _fuck,_ you already look perfect.”

It starts out … rough. Mark can only get about three inches in his mouth at first, and he’s initially mortified by how much he starts to drool all over his hand and chin. But Ethan tells him he’s beautiful, and the flush spreading down his pale chest suggests he isn’t lying, so Mark presses on.

Once he turns off the self-consciousness meter in his brain, it’s a lot easier for Mark to get into his task. He discovers he doesn’t really mind the salt-bitter flavor of precome and skin coating his tongue, even if the texture makes him momentarily queasy. It tastes a _lot_ different than a vagina, or at least the two or three Mark’s sampled, but it isn’t bad. Ethan seems to like when Mark dips his tongue into his slit to get a better taste, if the strangled, breathy noises he makes every time are any indication.

That quickly becomes Mark’s favorite part of blowing Ethan — Ethan’s sounds. The power trip Mark finds himself on when he learns exactly how to swirl his tongue and bob his head to make Ethan gasp and whine and groan is addictive, to say the least. One of Ethan’s legs ends up hooked over Mark’s shoulder while both hands bury themselves in Mark’s hair, holding on for dear life. Ethan watches Mark intently and chokes out encouragements as much as he can: “Yeah, y-yeah, that’s good, oh, _oh,_ f — teeth, te _-eeth,_ Mark, watch the — _ah! Oh god!”_

It doesn’t last as long as Mark thought it would. When Ethan starts chanting his name in a desperate, high-pitched voice, Mark starts humping the too-soft mattress beneath him, shocked at himself for getting hard again this fast. He moans around Ethan’s cock and Ethan cries out even louder, yanking hard on Mark’s hair in warning. “M-Mark, stop, _oh,_ fuck, ‘m gonna come, you gotta — ”

Mark pulls off with a wet pop and strokes Ethan fast and hard. “C’mon,” he rasps, drool still running down his chin. He looks up at Ethan with hooded eyes and licks at the crease of his hip, suddenly glad he’d thought to trim his beard after their shower earlier. “Come for me, baby.”

That’s all it takes. Ethan stares down at Mark in awe for another few seconds before squeezing his eyes shut, fucking up into Mark’s grip twice, and coming with a sob. Some of it gets on Mark’s face, which is a little surprising, but Mark just moans at the feeling and ruts against the mattress harder. Ethan’s downright ethereal with his head thrown back and sweat shining on his forehead; no wonder Mark’s nearly-31-year-old body seems to think it’s 18 again.

As soon as he’s caught his breath, Ethan wastes no time pulling Mark up against him. He cleans Mark’s face with a tissue from the (strategically placed) box on the bedside table and kisses him filthily, digging his nails into the meat of Mark’s ass. Mark comes between them a minute later, gasping and whining into Ethan’s mouth as he grinds urgently against Ethan’s flat stomach. It’s heady and kinda gross and Mark wants it again, over and over, in a million different ways, forever.

Things carry on like that for awhile. They pause to eat and hydrate after Mark’s jerked Ethan off one more time, and they even doze together amidst the untucked bedsheets for about an hour. By then, Mark has no idea how he could get it up again — he’s never done anything like this before, never had a whole afternoon to waste away in bed with someone. The fact that it’s _Ethan_ he’s doing it with only makes it more surreal.

Blinking awake to the feeling of Ethan peppering kisses down his bruised neck is the most surreal moment for Mark yet. Sighing, he drags Ethan on top of himself automatically and kisses him without even opening his eyes.

On top of Mark turns out to be right where Ethan wants to be.

The first brush of warm fingertips behind his balls makes Mark gasp, but he doesn’t pull back from the kiss Ethan’s drowning him in. A few seconds later, those fingertips venture further back, and a shock of sensation Mark can only describe as _weird_ shoots up his spine. No one’s ever touched Mark there, not even himself — at least, not with the intention Ethan seems to have. He goes tense all over, holding his breath.

Ethan breaks the kiss and leans back to Mark’s reddened face closely. His hand is still … there, but it isn’t moving any further. “You okay?” he asks, the words falling softer than the light snow floating down outside his bedroom window.

Swallowing hard, Mark nods rapidly. Every neuron in his brain is firing at once, trying to come to grips with what’s happening. “Uh — yeah, I-I think so.” His entire body is stock-still, one leg hooked over Ethan’s hips, and his heart is threatening to explode between his heaving lungs.

“You sure, ‘cuz you kinda look like you’re about to puke.”

Mark nods again and tightens his grip on Ethan’s shoulders. “I’m fine, I swear,” he insists as his breathing slowly evens out. “I’ve just never … not even to myself, and it’s _you,_ and I-I think my brain is short-circuiting.”

“I know the feeling.” Ethan leans down for a steady, grounding kiss, caressing the side of Mark’s face with his other hand. He waits until Mark melts a bit more beneath him to ask, “D’you want me to keep going?”

“Yes.” Mark is surprised at how quickly the response leaves his mouth, but he doesn’t take it back. Biting his lip, he looks up at Ethan with wide, trusting eyes and lets his thighs fall open on the twin mattress. He almost wants to laugh as every ridiculous “You’re-on-the-bottom-I’m-clearly-the-top” bit they’d played up for Unus Annus flashes through his mind. If only he’d been able to see himself now.

His thoughts are interrupted by Ethan whining as he takes in the image of Mark before him, bare and spread out and waiting for him. “This is _definitely_ a dream,” he mutters as he kisses Mark yet again. His hand disappears from between Mark’s legs and reaches blindly for the drawer of the beside table, pulling it open so far it almost crashes to the floor. “Shit — ”

“Can you handle this, dude?” Mark chuckles into Ethan’s mouth, grinning despite himself.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ethan chastises with a quick bite to Mark’s bottom lip. “I’m just — I can’t really believe this is happening, y’know?”

Mark hums in understanding and pulls Ethan back in for a deeper kiss, swiping their tongues together like it’s second nature. At this point, it almost is. “I definitely know,” he murmurs after a moment. His hands tangle in Ethan’s outrageous hair, an anchor to keep them both from floating up into space.

The sound of a bottle of lube popping open also does wonders to keep Mark rooted in the present. He breaks away from the kiss and shivers as Ethan leans back to coat the fingers of his right hand in the clear slick. _Holyshit, this is real, how is this real?_ Mark feels like his brain might melt out his ears any second.

“This is gonna feel kinda weird,” Ethan warns as he sets the lube aside and slowly moves his hand back where it was. “And some guys don’t like it at all, so. If you want me to stop, just say so and I will. I swear. Okay?”

Mark nods and Ethan smiles, kissing him sweetly. This part is a new experience for Mark, too — his partner being so considerate, so careful of his boundaries. None of his exes ever _crossed_ his boundaries, per se, but they’d also never outright promised him, “I’ll stop if you want me to.” He’d been the one saying that to them. It’s always been him laying his partner down, whispering softly in her ear as his hand crept between her legs — he’s never been on the receiving end of such attention and care. Until now.

It almost makes him choke up.

Shaking off the toxic masculinity monster in his head calling him weak and soft, Mark lets his eyes slip closed and revels in the affirmations Ethan’s murmuring against his hickey-riddled neck between gentle kisses. Two cold, wet fingertips nudge at his entrance and he can’t help the way his hips twitch up, shying away from the contact.

“Relax,” Ethan whispers as his other hand comes to rest on Mark’s chest, right over his heart. Mark tries his utmost to obey.

The first finger is the most shocking. It slips in to the first knuckle before freezing in place as Mark’s whole body tenses, confused by the intrusion. Mark is biting his lip and breathing rapidly through his nose, grasping at Ethan’s shoulders as he does his best to stay calm. _You can take this,_ he tells himself as his pulse steadies somewhat. _It’ll feel different once you’re used to it. It’s not that bad._

Ethan must feel when Mark’s muscles loosen, because he starts slowly moving his finger in and out, careful and patient. He wraps his free hand around Mark’s half-hard cock and just holds it, circling the pad of his thumb just under the flushed head. “Doin’ great,” he breathes against Mark’s jaw. “Just stay relaxed. Still okay?”

Mark nods fervently. His initial panic over the unfamiliar sensation(s) is quickly fading, replaced by curiosity and a hungry, near-primal _need_ he’s never felt before. “F-Fine,” he stammers as he presses an uncoordinated kiss to Ethan’s cheek. “Keep — Keep going.”

That one finger works itself all the way inside Mark after another minute, and the feeling isn’t … _un_ pleasant. It isn’t as earth-shattering as the scant number of fanfictions Mark’s read over the years led him to believe, either. Ethan’s feather-light ministrations are the only thing keeping his dick hard at this point, which is more disappointing that Mark wants to admit. He’s ready for the next step, whatever it is.

Unless it’s, like, full-on fucking. He’s not sure he’s comfortable enough for that yet.

Thankfully, that doesn’t appear to be Ethan’s plan. Once his index finger is slipping in and out of Mark with no resistance, he carefully works in a second one, quieting Mark’s gasps with a lazy kiss. He waits a few seconds for Mark to adjust to the stretch before gently scissoring his fingers, probing and searching. When he pushes them in deeper and curls them just enough, a flood of molten heat Mark has never come _close_ to experiencing combusts in his lower stomach.

“Jesus _fuck!”_ Mark spasms on the bed. _“Oh,_ god — !” His hips grind back against Ethan’s fingers, cock hardening in Ethan’s grasp. “Ethan!”

“Hmm?” Ethan repeats the motion and Mark feels every molecule of oxygen leave his chest in a rush. Ethan’s fingers are barely nudging something — _Prostate,_ Mark thinks hazily — that’s making every hair on Mark’s body stand on end. “Did I find something good?”

He sounds smug, the bastard. Mark would call him out on it if he wasn’t going blind from the newly-ignited lust smoldering in his every cell. All he can do is nod again and spread his legs wider, whining long and low in the back of his throat. “Again, please, d-do it again _—_ ”

Ethan obeys, over and over and over, until he’s full-on finger-fucking Mark within an inch of his life. Mark just clings to him and circles his hips, frantic, gasping pathetically in Ethan’s ear. “Yes, yes, _yes,_ Eth, _oh,”_ he whimpers, mindless and repetitive but unable to hold back as Ethan takes him apart piece by piece. “Fuck, _fuckfuckfuck —_ a-ah — ”

“God, listen to you.” Ethan drags his open, panting mouth across Mark’s collarbones and starts slowly stroking his now-leaking cock. He presses as close to Mark as he can without pausing the skilled motions of his hands. “Had a feeling you’d be noisy.”

Mark knows he’s being loud and obnoxious, but asking him to be quiet right now would be as pointless as asking him to sprout wings and fly out Ethan’s bedroom window. He writhes and shudders and lets loose noises he’s never heard himself make before, unable to take a breath without being overcome by a wave of sheer ecstasy. It feels like he’s about to come — there’s that swooping feeling in his stomach, the tingling in his toes — but it just keeps going, getting more and more intense with every confident movement of Ethan’s long, precise fingers.

Frankly, it’s the sexiest, most pleasurable thing Mark’s ever felt. He can’t believe he’s never tried it before.

“Ethan, I’m close,” he sobs after a good two or three minutes of clumsily, unabashedly riding Ethan’s fingers. The on-edge feeling is becoming too strong, too hard to resist; Mark can hardly stand the ceaseless surges of pleasure anymore. “I-I can’t — fuck — _oh, ooh_ — ”

“Look at me, Mark.”

Ethan’s voice is awed, like he’s just walked into the Roman Coliseum and is taken aback by its grandeur. Mark cracks his eyes open just far enough to see the flush high in Ethan’s cheeks, the desire making his oceanic eyes practically glow. He looks like he wants to devour Mark, ravish him, leave him speechless and pleading for nothing but Ethan’s next touch.

Even through the haze of lust and desperate need, Mark can tell there’s something missing. But his brain is quickly liquefying and if he doesn’t come in the next thirty seconds, he’ll probably implode.

“P-Please,” he chokes out, breath catching in his heaving chest when Ethan’s hands suddenly go still. His left hand is gripping the base of Mark’s dick just tight enough to be frustrating, while the fingers of his right are frozen inside Mark. Static replaces every coherent thought in Mark’s brain as he arches off the bed, whining low and scratching helplessly at Ethan’s shoulders as he tries to keep his eyes open. “Make me come, please, _please,_ Ethan, oh god … ”

“Ssh, I’ve got you. Fuck, so pretty.” Ethan closes the scant distance between their faces and kisses Mark long and slow. Dragging his fingertips against that magic bundle of nerves, he whispers against Mark’s swollen lips, “Call me baby again.”

 _Holy shit._ Mark’s cock throbs in Ethan’s grasp and he lets out a weak little cry. Licking his lips and staring into Ethan’s eyes inches from his own, he manages to rub enough brain cells together to whisper, “Eth, baby, please.”

Ethan practically _snarls_ and rewards Mark with a harsh few jabs of his fingers, picking up his strokes on Mark’s leaking cock at the same time. Mark convulses and twists his hips into both sensations, keening. “Keep going,” Ethan demands softly, scraping his teeth over Mark’s rough jaw.

“Baby, b-baby, _nnngh!”_ Mark can’t keep his eyes open anymore. He squeezes them shut and starts circling his hips with a purpose, sobbing every time fingertips glance over his prostate. “Eth-an, _fuck,_ baby, I’m so — ”

“Go ahead.” Ethan jacks Mark’s cock hard and fast, knocking the wind out of him instantly. His voice is deeper than Mark’s ever heard it, dark and rumbling in his chest. “Come for me, Mark, I know you wanna, c’mon.”

“B-Baby — _oh —_ Ethan, shit, _fuck me,_ oh _fuck!”_

Mark comes like a hurricane, like a thunderclap, like a plea. It rips through him with the strength of a Nor’easter and the precision of Ethan’s talented fingers, which are still massaging that spot inside Mark with bone-melting accuracy. Mark screams and thrashes and shoots all over Ethan’s fist and his own aching abs, completely unraveled. Mangled cries of Ethan’s name interspersed with “please” and “oh” spill from his lips as he comes and comes and _comes_ until he’s sure he’ll never be able to again. It would be worth it, though. For this.

Past the earth-shattering explosion of delicious agony, Mark is barely able to make out Ethan’s steady whispering in his ear: “You’re okay, I’ve got you, Mark, so good, so perfect, I’m here … ” His calming voice is the only thing keeping Mark even remotely grounded, and Mark clings to it just as tightly as he’s clinging to Ethan’s shoulders.

 _Nothing’s ever felt this good,_ he thinks even as he hisses from overstimulation when Ethan’s fingers slip out of him. He can’t stop whimpering, can’t fully catch his breath as Ethan eases him back down against the mattress and pillows. Tingling limbs and a yearning, lonely heart aren’t Mark’s favorite side effects of the aftershocks, but he ignores them in favor of tucking his nose against Ethan’s warm neck and forgetting the reality of their situation for a few blissful minutes.

It only after he’s caught his breath than Mark feels Ethan trembling against him, holding himself back. His dick is hot and hard against Mark’s hip, slick with precome, and Mark can’t help himself. Sliding his hands down Ethan’s sweat-slick back until he can dig his nails into Ethan’s ass, he blinks his bleary eyes open. “C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, staring into Ethan’s eyes as he bumps their noses together. “Move.”

That’s all the permission Ethan needs. He bites back a moan and plants himself more firmly on the bed above Mark before rolling his hips forwards, his cock fitting perfectly in the crease of Mark’s hip. Biting his lip, he squeezes his eyes shut and ruts down hard.

“So good,” Mark whispers, watching every twitch and minute expression twisting Ethan’s red face. “So good to me, baby, c’mon, come for me.”

Ethan makes a strangled noise and grinds down harder, his thrusts losing their rhythm fast. “Oh oh _oooh_ — Mark — ”

Maybe it’s the endorphin rush. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. It could even be the heartache. But Mark suddenly loses his filter for a few seconds and lets his mouth just say whatever it wants: “Ethan, baby, I love you, c’mon, fuck me, fuck me, come for me, please, _come_ … ”

“Mark, Mark, _Mark! A-Ah!”_ Ethan’s hips roll down twice more before his whole body locks up and he comes with a wail, shooting thick white ropes across both their stomachs. He shudders in Mark’s arms, forehead dropping down onto Mark’s shoulder, and keeps moving against Mark until he can’t anymore. He’s heavy when he collapses on top of Mark, panting and boneless, but Mark holds him in place and doesn’t let go. This closeness, this intimacy — Mark wants as much of it as he can get.

Ethan stops shivering after a few minutes, but he doesn’t move away from Mark yet. Mark kisses his forehead and traces abstract shapes on his back as both of them start breathing normally again. “Remind me,” he says, voice soft and deep, “to never tell you you’re not a top ever again.”

Laughter bubbles out of Ethan’s mouth, light and a little hoarse. “Noted,” he sighs, tucking his face into Mark’s neck. It fits there so well, just like the rest of his body as he shifts to mold himself against Mark’s side.

Mark tries to stay relaxed, but something’s nagging at the back of his mind too loudly to ignore. Burying his face in Ethan’s hair, he says quietly, “I’m sorry I, uh. I-I said ‘I love you.’ Again. I know it’s probably weird for you, so I can — ”

“No.” Ethan pulls back enough to shut Mark up with a firm kiss. Confused, Mark kisses back until Ethan breaks away to continue. “Don’t ever apologize for that. It’s not weird, okay? It’s how you feel, and you’ve held it back for long enough.”

He looks down into Mark’s eyes, earnest, and the unspoken _I wish I could say it back_ hangs in the air like a dense fog. Mark exhales and pulls Ethan in for another soft, grateful kiss, drawing it out until they both need to breathe.

They lay there in the dim light of the bedroom for awhile, both of them utterly spent and exhausted. Ethan breathes slow and even against Mark’s neck while Mark trails his fingertips up and down Ethan’s spine and tries not to think about how tragically temporary all this is. He knows that damned amulet is still a thing, hidden away in his jacket pocket somewhere on the living room floor, but for now — just for this perfect moment — Mark lets himself forget. For this moment, Mark closes his eyes and pretends he and Ethan are together for real, so in love they can’t keep their eyes and hands off each other. He can feel the steady beat of Ethan’s heart against his own chest, and he lets it lull him into a deceptive but beautiful trance.

Like seemingly everything in Mark’s life right now, that moment doesn’t last long. Ethan starts to squirm against Mark after about ten minutes, then slowly extracts himself from Mark’s arms. “I’m gonna get a washcloth,” he says, looking down at Mark with affection and awe. “I dunno if either of us can go another round for awhile.”

Mark drags a hand across his own face, suddenly bone tired. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he chuckles, reluctant to remove his other hand from Ethan’s back. “I … fuck, dude, I can’t even think right now.”

“Mmm, I‘m not surprised,” Ethan hums, leaning down to briefly kiss Mark’s cheek. “The first time is the weirdest, but also the best. And you did so good.”

Something inside Mark turns to jelly at those words. “I-I did?” he asks, eyes wide and searching as they stare into Ethan’s. He’s never felt this strange _need_ for validation before.

“Of course you did.” Ethan kisses him sweetly, running a hand from Mark’s chest to his bellybutton. “You got _really_ into it, and it was, like. Probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Or heard. Or … experienced, in general.”

Now Mark’s actively blushing, avoiding Ethan’s heavy, adoring gaze. Once again, things he’s read on the Internet feel a million times more real and special when it’s Ethan saying them. “Go get the washcloth, you sappy fuck,” he mutters. Ethan rolls his eyes, but with a sigh and one more quick kiss, he’s sauntering out of the bedroom — completely, blessedly nude — to the bathroom.

While he’s waiting for Ethan to return, Mark tries to distract himself from his existential, heartsick thoughts by taking a look around Ethan’s bedroom. Like his recording room, there’s movie posters on the wall and random pop culture memorabilia scattered over almost every surface. The furnishings are modest, as they had been in Ethan’s L.A. townhouse — a five-drawer dresser, a desk with a chair piled high with folded laundry, and a bookshelf in the far corner. There’s also random tripods, a ring light, and a camera bag shoved against one wall. All of it just _feels_ like Ethan, and Mark sighs contentedly, sinking further into the mattress and pillows he’s propped up on.

It’s then that he notices something else mounted on the wall near Ethan’s closet door: a simple brown ukulele. Ethan had said he still plays it from time to time. Mark’s chest aches at the sea of memories that floods his mind: hearing Ethan singing softly to himself while he’s editing; recording a duet of “The Sound of Silence” for Unus Annus; Ethan’s Karaoke for Koalas fundraiser a few weeks ago. Mark’s always considered Ethan the better singer of the two of them, and that livestream had definitely proven it. He could’ve sat back and listened to Ethan’s voice for hours, watching him laugh and harmonize perfectly with every guest he’d welcomed.

An intriguing, admittedly selfish idea pops into Mark’s head, and he finds himself smiling a little at the thought.

Ethan walks back into the room then, holding a damp washcloth and wearing the boxers he’d discarded on the living room floor hours ago. “What’re you smirking about?” he asks with a chuckle as he climbs back onto the bed.

“Nothing,” Mark replies, shivering when Ethan starts wiping off his jizz-streaked stomach. The cloth is warm, at least. “Just remembering stuff.”

“Mmm. What kind of stuff?”

“I dunno, random shit. Mostly times I got to hear you sing. You’ve always been way better at it than me.” Mark bites his lip and glances back over Ethan’s shoulder at the ukulele. “ … Is that thing tuned at all?”

Ethan turns to follow Mark’s gaze and smiles when he sees where it lands. “I haven’t touched it in about a month, so probably not.” When he looks back at Mark, there’s a hint of smugness in his sparking eyes. “Why? Do you want me to sing you a pwetty song, Mawkimoo?”

“I … maybe.” Mark pushes himself up into a sitting position once he’s cleaned off and kisses the corner of Ethan’s mouth. “Miss your voice.”

“Well it probably won’t be at its best, considering I had _someone’s_ dick down my throat a couple hours ago.” Ethan giggles as Mark blushes scarlet, pressing his amused grin against Mark’s cheek. “But I think I could be persuaded.”

After one more lingering kiss, Ethan floats across the room to take the ukulele off the wall. Mark watches him, transfixed — he’s always been mesmerized by the way Ethan moves. Whether he’s dancing or doing a backflip or simply walking through a room, that deeply-engrained gymnastic ability shines through in the smoothness of his every motion. It’s nearly hypnotizing at times.

Grumbling about the state of the strings, Ethan snaps Mark out of his reverie by sitting back down on the bed, ukulele in hand. “It’s _really_ out of tune,” he confirms with a wrinkled nose as he strums and fiddles with the tuning keys. “Um. Any requests?”

Mark couldn’t name a single song right now to save his life. He’s tired and in love and he’s had four orgasms today — not the best recipe for thinking on your feet. So he settles for, “Surprise me,” leaning back against the headboard of the bed and pulling the one remaining bedsheet up to his waist.

“Okay.” Ethan crosses his legs and drums his fingertips against the body of the ukulele while he flips through his mental Rolodex. His eyes light up after a minute, and he looks down at the instrument for a moment before strumming the first few chords. The melody is somewhat familiar to Mark, but he can’t quite place it.

Then Ethan starts to sing, and it hits Mark like a splash of ice water.

_“I know you belong / To somebody new/ But tonight / You belong to me … ”_

It’s a song Mark’s heard Ethan sing before — it may have even made it to Spotify. Mark had thought it was lovely then, if a little cutesy. But here, in the low light of this apartment bedroom that shouldn’t even exist, it takes on an entirely new meaning.

 _“Although we're apart / You're part of my heart / And tonight / You belong to me … ”_ Ethan glances up at Mark from the spot on the bed he’d been fixated on. His expression is unreadable, but also as transparent as Mark’s ever seen it. _“Wait down by the stream / How sweet it will seem / Once more just to dream / In the moonlight / My honey, I know / With the dawn / That you will be gone / But tonight / You belong to me.”_

Mark barely hears the rest of the song. He watches Ethan’s face, entranced by his voice and his eyes and the ardent way he’s singing every word. It’s … god, it’s _so close_ to love. Mark wishes more than anything that he knew what to do to spark that final inkling of emotion in Ethan’s heart.

This is enough, though. It’s more than enough.

Ethan finishes with a gentle flourish, the final chord ringing in the air for just a moment. A faint blush tints his cheeks as he shrugs modestly, letting the ukulele rest in his lap. “Ta-da,” he says with a nervous laugh. He doesn’t explain why he chose that song, but Mark knows.

“That was beautiful,” Mark murmurs, clearing his throat to rid it of the obnoxious lump that seems to show up every goddamn day. “Thank you.”

“Aw, shucks.” Ethan waves him off, but Mark notices the wet sheen making his eyes glitter. “Hey, it’s your turn now.”

 _“My_ turn? I’ve only ever played trumpet and guitar.” Mark shakes his head and adjusts the pillows he’s leaning against. “I don’t think you wanna see me break that thing.”

“Well … what if you sing, and I play?” Ethan picks out a random tune on the strings without even looking. “What songs do you know? I bet I can play at least one of them.”

“Believe it or not, I don’t actually listen to music all that much.” Mark digs deep into his endorphin-soaked brain for a title, an artist, a string of lyrics Ethan might be familiar with. Fuck, if only he listened to the radio in the car more.

Suddenly, a memory from ages ago surfaces. It’s from his childhood, from the first house he’d grown up in in Cincinnati. They’d had a record player in the living room, despite most of the world having moved on to Walkmans and CDs at that point, and his dad had loved it. One of the few albums Mark remembers him playing frequently was a Beach Boys record from sometime in the late ‘60s, and he’d always set the needle back after one specific song to hear it again and again. When Mark tries to think of the lyrics, he’s surprised to find he can recall most of them.

And … they fit the mood.

“The Beach Boys,” Mark blurts, opening his eyes (when did they close?) and looking back up at Ethan. “Do you know any Beach Boys songs?”

“I mean, a couple? Why, which one are you thinking of?”

“‘God Only Knows.’”

Ethan’s expression softens, and his eyes seem to shift from green to blue as Mark watches. “Yeah,” he says with a melancholy little smile. “I know that one. It’s Paul McCartney’s favorite.”

“Really? I think it was my dad’s, too.” Mark clears his throat and licks his lips, hoping his voice doesn’t give out in the middle of this. “Can you play it?”

“I haven’t before, but I can probably do it by ear.” Sure enough, Ethan starts strumming a familiar tune that transports Mark back in time 20 years. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, and sings when Ethan counts him in.

 _“I may not always love you / But long as there are stars above you / You never need to doubt it / I'll make you so sure about it / God only knows what I'd be without you … ”_ More of the words come back to Mark with every note. It’s got that ‘60s cheesiness to it, for sure, but in this context, it becomes almost anguished. Ethan’s staring down at the ukulele as he plays, focusing on the placement of his fingers, but Mark’s gaze hasn’t left his face for a moment.

 _I hope you know,_ Mark thinks as he continues to sing. _“If you should ever leave me / Though life would still go on, believe me / The world could show nothing to me / So what good would living do me / God only knows what I'd be without you … ”_

_“God only knows … ”_

Mark isn’t expecting it when Ethan joins in, harmonizing effortlessly with Mark’s lower timbre. He looks up from the ukulele and their eyes meet, electrifying the space between them. Mark is suddenly struck by how Lifetime-movie-esque this moment is — spontaneous duets in bed with the love of your life? That’s not _real —_ but he doesn’t want it to ever end. They just keep singing to each other, pretty much in a round now, the same eight words: _“God only knows what I’d be without you.”_

Eventually, Mark’s voice trails off and Ethan takes over, singing the little doo-wops this band was known for as well as improvising a few of his own. Mark is perfectly happy to watch him, and he does until the song naturally tapers to an end.

Neither of them say anything after Ethan stops strumming. Mark’s hungry and he knows he needs another shower, but the need to hold Ethan close quickly overpowers every other instinct he has. Ethan seems to feel the same — he sets the ukulele down against the nightstand beside the bed and falls into Mark’s open arms, curling up against the older man’s side. Mark lays them both down, tugs the bedsheet over Ethan, and sighs into his hair.

Something in Mark’s guilt-ridden heart stitches itself back together when Ethan starts snuffling against Mark’s collarbone a few minutes later, sound asleep. He looks so peaceful, so trusting of Mark to hold him and not let go. Mark watches him doze for a little while, studying every freckle and scar on his lax face, and marvels at his own luck. Not only did he meet Ethan in his own timeline, but he kept up contact with him, got along with him, and didn’t fuck everything up by hiring him as an editor. It’s incredibly lucky how well they meshed together from the very beginning, and the fact that they eventually became best friends still blows Mark’s mind. It’s true that Ethan drives Mark up every wall in his house several times a week, and that Mark is sometimes more of an asshole than he tries to be for a bit, but somehow, all that worked out. By some miracle, it turned into a love that spans universes.

It’s the most precious thing Mark’s ever had to lose. But the fact that he ever had it at all is comforting enough for him to breathe a little easier. Once he’s switched off the bedside lamp, Mark closes his eyes, kisses Ethan’s forehead, and pulls him a little closer. It’s still early in the evening, but it’s already dark out and he’s fucking tired.

Mark is asleep in minutes, and for the first time since he got here, he doesn’t pray to wake up somewhere else.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, these boys just can’t get enough of each other, can they? 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :D keep your eyes peeled for chapter eight tomorrow!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are really plugging along here, aren’t we? Only three chapters left after this one!! It’s kinda crazy to me how little time it takes to read this fic compared to how much time it took to write it — i wonder if that’s how novelists feel, too.
> 
> Not gonna lie, there’s not a whole lot of plotty stuff in this chapter. I mostly wrote it because i wanted to give the boys a normal, nice day that would let them forget about the impending doom looming over them. And ... i also kinda wanted to indulge more in my predilection for bottom!mark lmao. Next chapter will be another doozy, tho!!
> 
> So here ya go: chapter eight. Thank you all again for all the love you’re showing this fic!! I literally can’t get enough of it. I forget sometimes that i have the ability to write things people actually like and connect with and want to read!!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this humble offering :)

The following day is the closest thing to “normal” Mark’s experienced in this timeline so far. Even though waking up tangled in Ethan’s arms isn’t something he’s used to yet, it feels so natural and right that his brain doesn’t question it for a second. While Ethan’s still asleep, Mark kisses his forehead and worms his way out of bed to shower and make breakfast. It’s only nine o’clock — Mark wonders if he’ll be able to drag Ethan to the kitchen before 11. 

Surprisingly, Ethan emerges from the bedroom just as the eggs Mark’s scrambling are about done. He’s pulled on the soft yellow hoodie he’d worn in the “Reading Your Comments” video Mark watched on the plane, but his boxers are the only other fabric separating his skin from Mark’s. Rubbing his eyes with one too-long sleeve, he pads over to the stove and velcroes himself to Mark’s side. “Smells good,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“I’ve got oatmeal in the microwave, too.” Warmth spreads through Mark as Ethan winds his arms around his waist. He retaliates by turning his head to press a kiss to Ethan’s wild hair. “I feel kinda bad — these are your last six eggs. We should go grocery shopping today.”

“Mmmph.” Ethan hides his face in Mark’s shoulder and squeezes him. “Should’ve known I’d run out of food faster than usual. Moocher.”

“Hey!” Mark turns of the stovetop before shuffling sideways to plate the eggs, careful not to dislodge Ethan’s tight hold. His heart is threatening to burst from how much he loves everything that’s happening right now. “I was planning on paying, but if you’re gonna be throwin’ names around … ”

“Nooo, no, I’m sorry,” Ethan whines, choking on laughter as he lifts his head to meet Mark’s eyes. He’s disheveled and adorable and Mark wants to hug him so tight he pops. “Please buy me Lucky Charms with your bags of YouTube money, Mister Marker Pliers.”

Mark giggles and sets the skillet back on the stove so he can finally wrap his arms around Ethan. They’re nose-to-nose now, grins wide and hearts at ease. “Persuade me,” Mark challenges.

Ethan rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and loops his arms around Mark’s neck. “Gladly,” he murmurs, taking a half-step forwards. His bleary eyes slip closed and his lips meet Mark’s and for a blessed few moments, everything in Mark’s head is quiet.

It isn’t the most productive day either of them have had, but they do get some things accomplished. They go to the grocery store around the corner once Ethan’s caffeinated and showered, and as promised, Mark loads the cart high and pays for everything. They’re barely able to fit all the bags in the back seat and trunk of Mark’s rental car, but Mark considers that a successful shopping trip. It’s made even more successful by the fact that neither of them get recognized.

When they get back to Ethan’s apartment and start restocking the cabinets and fridge, Ethan tells Mark he wants to record for a little bit. He’s apparently gone through the last few pre-recorded videos he’d had stashed, and he doesn’t want to go too long without putting anything out. Not for the first time, his drive and dedication truly impress Mark, and they toss around some ideas for quick, easy videos. Ethan eventually decides on a few and tells Mark he can sit in and watch if he wants. “I wouldn’t, like, tell people you’re there or anything,” he clarifies, stretching up to place a can of corn on a high shelf. “It’s just, y’know. You said you feel most at home in that kind of environment, so if you wanna hang out on the couch in there, you can.”

Mark doesn’t need to be asked twice. “I’d love that,” he assures. More old memories crop up in his mind, and he smiles wistfully as he makes room for a gallon of milk in the fridge. “I used to hang around while you were editing all the time — I’d sometimes pester you a little, try to distract you with old improv props.”

“Sounds like a really healthy work environment.” Ethan walks around the empty plastic bags scattered across the floor and plants a kiss on Mark’s stubbly cheek. “At least promise you won’t throw anything at me.”

“Oh, I would never.” Mark closes the fridge, reaches out, and catches Ethan by the hand to pull him in for a real kiss. Kissing Ethan is becoming as easy as breathing to him, along with this whole domestic thing they’ve got going on this morning. It’s just so _nice,_ and Mark refuses to ruin it by letting his thoughts drift anywhere depressing.

When he pulls back, his thoughts go down a different path entirely. “Oh shit,” he says with a nervous laugh, brushing his fingertips over the hickeys scattered across Ethan’s throat. “Um. You might wanna put on a turtleneck or something before getting in front of a camera.”

“Huh? Oh — oh fuck!” Ethan groans and knocks his forehead against Mark’s chin, exasperated. “I totally forgot, god dammit, we went to the _store_ like this.”

“We sure did.” Mark doesn’t know whether to feel mortified or amused, so he settles on a heart-fluttering blend of the two. “We’re bad at this, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, we really are.” At least Ethan’s laughing now, chest vibrating against Mark’s and warm breath puffing against Mark’s jaw. “‘S okay, though. Totally worth it.”

Mark just hugs him tighter and presses a lingering kiss to his temple. It really is worth it.

Taking Mark’s advice, Ethan changes into the only turtleneck he owns — a slim-fitting black one that makes his eyes look brighter — before grabbing a quick snack and heading to his recording room with Mark in tow. Mark helps him get the new camera set up just right, then steps away to let Ethan work out the rest.

He winds up lounging on the couch, flipping through a few random music and entertainment magazines Ethan had stashed in the cabinet beneath the wall-mounted TV. He’d done a cursory scroll through Twitter and Tumblr just to make sure no one had posted about them at the grocery store, but he’d been too nervous to delve any deeper into social media after that. It’s still very weird to him that so much of this world is the same as his, but there are just enough little differences to make him feel off-kilter. World politics haven’t changed hardly at all, from what he finds on his Reddit feed, but the climate at YouTube and other influencer platforms appears to be so much more toxic and money-hungry here. Mark’s curiosity is strong, but he fears if he gets too engrossed, he’ll start spiraling again.

So. Magazines it is. Mark skims the glossy pages for a few minutes until he sees Ethan put on his headphones and start recording. He looks so comfortable there beneath the studio lights — it’s clear this is his biggest passion, his calling in life, and Mark’s ever-aching heart is comforted somewhat by the knowledge that Ethan stuck with it even without Mark’s help.

“What is up my Cranky Crew? It’s Ethan from CrankGameplays, and today I’m starting off with a quick apology.” Hearing Ethan’s intro, seeing him do it in person with a goofy smile on his face, fills Mark with an undefinable emotion. “I know it’s been a couple days since I’ve uploaded, but if you follow me on Twitter, you’ll know it’s because I’ve been a little busy. Someone — ”

Ethan glances sideways at Mark for a split second, and the corner of his mouth twitches. Mark smiles, gaze firmly fixed on Ethan’s carefully composed face, and resists the urge to try and get him to break character.

“ — A friend from out of state came to visit kind of as a surprise, and we’ve just been catching up for the past week or so. It’s been super super fun, and I’m really glad to see them, but I’ve also missed hanging out with you guys! So. Sorry it’s been a minute, but I’m back, and have I got a great game to show you.”

He’s a fucking natural. Mark has always known Ethan to be a talented creator, but he’s so obviously in his element behind that desk, riffing for the camera in his usual goofball style. His jokes and accents and improvised narratives are all endlessly funny and entertaining; Mark has to cover his own mouth to stifle his laughter more than once as he watches. It’s plain to see how much Ethan loves what he’s doing, and it’s a goddamn crime that more people won’t get to see it.

Even more than the seamless moments, though, Mark adores the way Ethan shakes his head and giggles to himself whenever he messes up and has to do another take. It’s almost more endearing than when he does it while shooting for Unus Annus — probably because Mark’s really never had this behind-the-scenes glimpse into Ethan’s recording process. As Mark’s editor, Ethan had seen plenty of Mark’s nonsensical, uncut footage, and Mark suddenly regrets never asking to just. Sit in on one of Ethan’s sessions like this. Ethan is so genuine in every shot; his smile is so bright he barely needs the studio lights at all.

Of course, Mark’s mind being how it is, it doesn’t take too long for it to wander into … questionable territory. Ethan must be getting chased or something in the indie horror game he’s playing, because his eyes go wide and he gasps, pink mouth dropping open as his breath catches in his throat. “Oh, oh, oh no,” he whispers, soft and breathy. “Come on, come on … ”

Mark can’t look away. Unwarranted thoughts start buzzing through his head, nipping at his brain like mosquitos — he wonders what Ethan would do if Mark snuck under his desk and started sucking him off, if he’d stop recording or try to keep himself composed for the camera. What would he sound like, disguising his moans as frightened yelps when he gets jumpscared? Would he take one hand off his keyboard to grab a fistful of Mark’s hair and hold him in place? How long would it take him to break — how long could Mark drag it out? What would make Ethan finally forget the game and start begging, pushing his headphones off and throwing his head back shamelessly against his desk chair?

Dozens of salacious fantasies fill Mark’s imagination at once, and before he knows it, he’s hard in his jeans. _Fuck._ He feels a little perverted, having these vivid thoughts about Ethan without Ethan knowing, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. As subtly as possible, he sits up a bit straighter on the couch and crosses his legs.

Ethan, still oblivious to the effect he’s having on his guest, flinches and cries out as a bright flash of light — an explosion, maybe — reflects off his glasses. “Fuuuck,” he whines.

 _Fuuuck,_ Mark thinks. This isn’t fair. He feels creepy and horny and verging on desperate, his libido once again acting fifteen years younger than it is. Slowly, without taking his eyes off Ethan, Mark moves his right hand to his lap and presses the heel of his palm against the growing bulge in the front of his jeans. He can’t suppress the shiver that results, letting his eyes drift shut for a couple seconds and biting his lip at the sweet hint of friction.

When his eyes open again, he finds Ethan staring sideways at him. His fingers are still moving on the keyboard, his expression carefully neutral, but there’s a flash of heat in his riptide eyes that makes Mark blush instantly. He _has_ to know now what he’s doing to Mark, but he looks back at his computer a moment later and continues his commentary like nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

Like fucking _Markiplier_ isn’t touching himself ten feet from him.

Something like jealousy flares in Mark’s gut at Ethan’s apparent indifference. For a good minute or two, he tosses around the idea of jerking off on this couch while Ethan pretends not to watch. But he eventually decides that might be a little much — he isn’t actually a hormonal teenager, despite what his body wants him to believe. He has self-control.

So he waits. He sits and squirms on that couch for another hour, trying to distract himself with magazines while Ethan finishes his game. It’s a kind of torture Mark’s never experienced before, and as much as he wants to hate it, he’s kind of ashamed to find he doesn’t. He’s not being outright ignored — Ethan glances at him once every minute — so he knows eventually his patience will pay off. An unspoken promise glows hot in Ethan’s eyes, kindling the growing flame of arousal licking up Mark’s spine. Mark can’t wait to find out how that promise will be kept.

 _Finally,_ after eons of holding himself back and blindly flipping through the same three magazines over and over, Mark sees Ethan reach up to turn off his camera. The younger man’s gaze is now fully fixed on Mark, dark and hungry, and a thrill of anticipation shoots through Mark’s already heaving chest. Without a word, Ethan takes his headphones off, stands up from his desk (revealing an impressive tent in the front of his gray sweats), and makes a beeline for Mark.

Mark tosses the magazines aside and greets Ethan with open arms, pulling him down into his lap as he cranes up for an urgent kiss. Ethan immediately moans against Mark’s lips, straddling his thighs and gripping his shoulders like he’ll never let go again. Their cocks brush through far too many layers of clothing when Ethan grinds down once, harsh and uncoordinated.

“You asshole,” he breathes, raking his fingers through Mark’s thick hair. “So fuckin’ pretty. So _distracting._ I had two more games I wanted to play, dude.”

“Play ‘em later,” Mark suggests with a teasing nip to Ethan’s bottom lip. He grabs at Ethan’s narrow hips and holds him still as he grinds up, needy. “This — mmm — this is more important.”

Ethan whimpers and meets Mark’s uncertain thrust with a firm, decisive one. They both let out unsteady breaths. “I hate it when you’re right.”

 _“Nnngh,_ I don’t. ‘Least, not right now.”

“Shut up and kiss me, Mark.”

The couch is big enough for them to stretch out on, but after about ten minutes of sloppy kissing and mindless rutting, Ethan tears himself away from Mark and stands up. “C’mon,” he rasps, pulling Mark to his feet with both hands. “Bed. Naked. Now.”

 _Monosyllabic already? I must really be getting good at this._ Mark replies with a lewd kiss and starts walking backwards out of the room, relying on Ethan’s fingers in his belt loops to keep him upright.

In an echo of last night, their clothes end up scattered across the floor of the living room and Ethan’s bedroom. Mark‘s back hits the twin mattress within seconds of crossing the threshold, but he barely feels the sheets against his overheated skin as Ethan tugs his boxers down and off. Before Mark can so much as whimper, Ethan’s plastered against him, kissing him so thoroughly it’s a wonder his tonsils remain intact. All he can do is wrap his limbs around Ethan and hold on tight, clinging like a koala as a strong hand takes hold of his leaking cock. 

By the time Ethan’s fingers find their way inside Mark again, Mark’s hanging from the edge by his teeth. He gasps and growls and moans loud enough to be heard from the snow-laden street below, probably, but Ethan doesn’t quiet him. Instead, he continues to press mercilessly against Mark’s prostate, forcing out even more lust-crazed noises that make both of them blush.

“Can I be honest with you for a second?” Ethan asks out of nowhere, casual as anything, as he slows the pace of his fingers. Mark’s just on the edge of close and Ethan doesn’t even sound out of breath. The bastard.

Mark swallows hard and resists the urge to cuss the other man out for teasing. “W-What?”

Ethan leans down and steals a quick, dirty kiss that does nothing to cool Mark’ jets. “Maybe this is, like, stereotypical of me,” he says, “but I didn’t expect you to be so into this.”

The words rattle around in Mark’s lust-addled brain for a few seconds. When they start to sink in, he blinks a couple times to focus his eyes and tilts his head inquisitively. “Into what, sex with a guy?”

“Well, yeah, I guess, but mostly … this part.” Ethan emphasizes his point with a harsh jab of his fingers, making Mark’s back arch a bit. “Kinda thought I’d be the one getting railed into the mattress if this ever miraculously happened.”

 _Ah._ “M-Maybe if you weren’t so fuckin’ good at doing the railing,” Mark chokes out as he circles his hips. “But yeah, I guess — _oh_ — I can se- _ee_ how you’d think that. What with m-my dominant personality and godlike physique ‘n all.”

“Uh-huh. Right.” Trailing kisses from Mark’s ear to his chin, Ethan smirks and crooks his fingers in _just_ the right way. Mark sees fireworks behind his eyelids. “Technically, though, I haven’t actually railed you yet.”

The thing is, he’s not wrong. A fresh flare of arousal spreads through Mark’s veins as a slew of thoughts he’s never let himself indulge in for more than a few seconds fills his mind. Panting, he blinks up at Ethan again as Ethan pulls back just enough to meet his heated gaze. Silence hangs heavy in the humid air of the bedroom as they both try to figure out what the other is thinking.

Ethan speaks first, eyes dark and voice husky. “You asked me for it last night.”

“Uh-huh.” Mark can barely breathe.

“Did … Did you mean it?”

“ … I think so?”

Ethan bites his lip, hesitant. “That’s not a — ”

 _“Yes,_ okay, yes, I meant it. I did.” Mark blushes scarlet and squirms a little, gripping Ethan’s lean shoulders harder. _This is really happening._ “I want it.”

“Want what?” Ethan’s nervous half-smile is now a predatory smirk. He spreads the two fingers gone still inside Mark just far enough to fit a third, easing it in slowly. “Say it,” he intones, the weight of his ravenous stare forcing more air out Mark’s lungs.

So much is going on in Mark’s head right now, but all his thoughts sound like static. His chest is heaving, his heart is racing, his vision is a little blurry around the edges — it’s almost like he’s having a panic attack, but he isn’t panicking. The reality of what’s about to happen between him and Ethan is just becoming a little more real with every hitching breath he takes. He’s never pictured himself in this situation, never thought he’d have sex with anyone but cis girls.

But now, with Ethan looming over him and offering him everything, Mark has never been happier to be proven wrong.

Inhaling deeply, Mark stares intently into Ethan’s darkened eyes and lets go of his final irrational hang-up. “I want you,” he purrs, “to fuck me, Ethan.”

Ethan lets his own breath out in an unsteady whoosh. Pupils dilating impossibly wider, he nods and leans down for a hasty kiss. “Okay,” he whispers as his probing fingers slow to a stop. “F-Fuck, okay.”

Mark shivers and whines as Ethan slowly slips his fingers out, but he tries to keep his body relaxed. Ethan fumbles for the lube on the nightstand and offers to wear a condom, but Mark figures it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. They’ve only got two and a half days left before none of this will have happened, and besides, Mark had sucked Ethan’s bare cock yesterday and nothing’s started growing in or around his mouth yet.

“Well, yeah, I know I’m clean,” Ethan says when Mark tells him this. “I was thinking more about, like … clean-up.”

 _Oh._ Mark blushes, embarrassed. “Right. Uh. Th-That’s okay, it’s not a huge deal.”

He refuses to admit the idea of Ethan coming inside him, filling him up, makes his whole body ache with want. For some reason, that’s one of the hottest things Mark’s ever thought about, and he’s only had the thought for fifteen seconds.

After another few kisses and gentle, murmured reassurances, Ethan maneuvers Mark onto his hands and knees. Mark’s a bit disappointed he won’t be able to see Ethan’s face, but if this position makes the first time easier like Ethan claims, he’s willing to try it. Hell, if this goes well, Mark knows they’ll be doing it again — they do have _some_ time left to experiment. So he braces himself on his forearms and fists his hands in one of Ethan’s pillows, trying his best not to feel self-conscious about his bare, prepped ass sticking up in the air.

Ethan must sense his anxiety, because he drapes himself over Mark’s back for a few seconds to whisper in his ear, “You look so fucking good right now, Mark, so gorgeous. Can’t wait to get inside you, make you feel good.” His hands are warm as they stroke Mark’s flanks, calming; Mark can’t help but melt under the touch.

Before Mark knows it, Ethan is leaning back again and gripping his hips. Something slick and smooth and _big_ — bigger than three fingers, at least — nudges at Mark’s entrance, and he tenses up, resisting the urge to bite into his own forearm.

“You alright?” Ethan asks, genuinely concerned, as his thumbs rub soothing circles into Mark’s hipbones. “You can bail whenever you want, I promise.”

“Not bailing,” Mark pants, shaking his head as he tries to relax again. “Just … unfamiliar, ‘s all. You can go ahead, ‘m fine.”

Ethan exhales and leans down to press a kiss to the nape of Mark’s neck. “Okay. I … god.”

Pressure builds, heat flares, and the head of Ethan’s cock slips inside Mark. Mark lets out a choked moan, gripping the pillow tighter, and Ethan squeaks somewhere above him. It’s already a big stretch, but Mark knows he can take it. “K-Keep going,” he gasps as he tries to hold back from shoving his hips backwards.

“Just — gimme a sec.” Ethan’s voice is taut and strained, and he’s already gripping Mark’s hips tight enough to bruise. A few heartbeats later, he presses forward another couple inches, groaning low in the back of his throat. “Holyshit, _fuck,_ M-Mark — ”

Mark knows what he means. Ethan’s probably not even halfway inside him yet, and he already feels like he’s being split apart. His neglected cock twitches between his legs, hardening again after going soft at the initial bite of pain from the stretch. Sobbing once, breathless, he spreads his knees further and rests his forehead against his trembling arms. “O-Oh, god,” he whimpers, marveling at whatever magic is making this feel good.

“Yeah,” Ethan agrees. Mark feels him lean over again and his arms almost give out when warm lips brush over his spine between his shoulder blades. “You — God, you feel amazing, Mark, holy fuck. Y-You still okay?”

The care and consideration is appreciated, really, but right now, all Mark wants is for Ethan to fuck him into next week. Nodding frantically, he bites his lip, takes as deep a breath as he can manage, and swivels his hips back with purpose. Ethan bottoms out inside him, and they both shout in surprise at the feeling.

“Jesusfuck,” Ethan spits, words slurring. He drops down fully onto Mark’s back, bracing himself on his hands and tucking his face in the crook of Mark’s neck. Mark holds stock-still as he lets his body adjust, and he can feel Ethan trembling against him, barely holding himself back. This sensation — the feeling of being filled, of being completely connected and intertwined with the person he loves most — almost overwhelms Mark. Sure, it burns a bit, and the pleasure center in his brain is both overloaded and confused, but he doesn’t want it to ever stop. This is the _most_ he’s ever felt, without question, and it’s hot and sexy and frightening and _awesome._

“M-Move,” Mark says after they’ve both acclimated a bit. He circles his hips again and throws his head back as the head of Ethan’s cock barely brushes his prostate. “Please, Ethan, _move!”_

Ethan nods against Mark’s neck, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the sweaty skin, and pulls out about halfway. When he slams back in, firm and precise, his broken moan is drowned out by Mark’s needy cry.

Once they get a rhythm going, Mark just about loses his mind. He alternates between pressing his nose to Ethan’s temple, moaning and pleading, and biting down on the pillow in his hands to stifle himself. Every time Ethan hits that spot inside him, he sobs and rocks back into it, more desperate than he’s ever been. It’s like he’s back on that emotional rollercoaster, climbing higher and higher with every devastating thrust of Ethan’s hips, only this time, he’s looking forward to the drop.

Just when Mark’s figured out the best way to move and angle himself to make sure Ethan glances over his prostate every time, Ethan leans back again. Mark shivers instantly at the sudden chill and gasps when Ethan stops moving. Squirming impatiently, Mark pries his eyes open and tries to look over his shoulder at the younger man. “E-Eth, what — _ah!”_

He’s cut off by Ethan wrapping his arms around his middle and hoisting him up off his forearms. His back hits Ethan’s warm chest, his ass sinks down into Ethan’s lap, and the angle becomes _exquisite._ “Oh _god!”_ he cries, grabbing at Ethan’s hands splayed over his stomach as his head tips back onto Ethan’s shoulder. “Ethan, fuck — !”

“I-I’ve got you,” Ethan says, low and breathy. He kisses Mark’s slack jaw, his neck, every inch of flushed skin he can reach. He’s so deep inside Mark, he’s _throbbing,_ and Mark just doesn’t know what to _do._ “‘S okay, just hold on.”

One of his hands trails down Mark’s abs, skimming over his scar, until it reaches the dark, wiry hair at the base of his cock. Confident fingers wrap around the hard length and squeeze firmly, while his other hand wanders up to pluck at a dusky nipple. “So fuckin’ hot, babe,” Ethan growls in Mark’s ear before picking his thrusts back up. His hands start moving, too, stroking and rubbing until Mark is nothing but a whimpering, boneless mess in his arms.

For the second time in 24 hours, Mark’s filter breaks. He can’t control the words and noises leaving his mouth, but for once, he doesn’t want to. “Fuck, fu-uck, _ohmygod,_ Ethan, _Ethan,_ h-holy _shit,”_ he rambles, every other word punctuated by a sharp moan or sob. The creaking of the cheap bed frame and the obscene slap of Ethan’s hips against his ass sets every nerve in his body alight. “F-Fuck me, Ethan, please, _please, fuckmefuckmefuckme!”_

“Nngh, _Mark,”_ Ethan groans, his voice reverberating in Mark’s head like the sweetest siren call. His thumbs circle the head of Mark’s cock and the skin around his nipple simultaneously, and it’s all Mark can do to stay conscious. “So good, s-so fucking good, that’s right, scream for me, c’mon.”

What can Mark do besides obey? Ethan’s cock hits his prostate dead-on three times in a row and he _wails,_ arching in Ethan’s arms like he’s just been shocked with a defibrillator. God, he’s close, every thrust and stroke ratcheting him higher and higher towards that apex —

— But something’s missing. As earth-shattering and brain-melting as this is, something nagging at the back of Mark’s mind is keeping him from entirely surrendering. With all the effort and willpower he can muster, he forces himself to stop bouncing in Ethan’s lap and digs his nails into Ethan’s thighs, gasping for breath. “Stop, s-stop, wait, hang on,” he chokes out, blinking his bleary eyes open.

Ethan goes still and lets go of Mark’s dick instantly, swallowing down a whine. “What’s wrong?” he asks, breathless but not impatient.

Mark turns his head to meet Ethan’s lust-dark gaze as best he can. Ethan’s face is flushed red and sweaty, his eyes wild, and Mark can’t resist leaning in for an uncoordinated kiss. “I wanna see you,” he whispers into Ethan’s mouth. “Wanna see your face when I come, baby, p-please, can we — ?”

Ethan nods, returning the kiss with sloppy abandon. His heart pounds against Mark’s back, pulsing in time with his cock still buried deep inside Mark. “Y-Yeah, of course,” he says, running a hand up and down Mark’s quivering stomach. “Lemme just pull out a sec, okay? Then you can lie down.”

The emptiness Mark feels as Ethan slips out of him almost makes him cry. Head spinning, he turns around and flops down onto his back, spread out as much as he can be on the twin mattress. He watches Ethan slick his cock with more lube, then grabs for him as soon as he’s back within kissing distance. Ethan kisses him slow and thorough, clearly trying to calm them both, and cups his hands under Mark’s knees to lift Mark’s legs up and around his waist. A fresh flare of electricity bolts through Mark and he breaks the kiss, staring up into Ethan’s eyes.

They’re so close together, noses almost brushing, and Mark’s heart twinges in his heaving chest. “I love you,” he breathes, helpless against the feeling.

Ethan just smiles down at him, brushes a lock of sweat-damp hair off his forehead, and kisses him with so much adoration it could almost be love. “I know,” he murmurs.

It’s not enough. They both know it. But for now, that doesn’t matter.

Mark’s arms wind securely around Ethan’s neck as Ethan shoves a pillow under his hips and carefully pushes back inside him. It’s not as explosive a sensation as sitting directly on Ethan’s dick had been, but it’s still a lot, and Mark shivers from head to curled toe when Ethan bottoms out. _“Fuck yeah,”_ he drawls, his latent pseudo-southern accent showing itself for a moment. Tightening the vice of his thighs around Ethan’s waist, he gives Ethan the go-ahead nod and braces himself.

Ethan sets a brutal pace right off the bat. Ordinarily Mark would be mortified by the clanging of the headboard against the wall, but the only thoughts running through his head are _Ethan Ethan baby fuck yes please love you Eth Eth Ethan._ He only realizes he’s babbling out loud when Ethan silences him with a dirty kiss, hooking his arms under Mark’s thighs to hike them up higher. Ethan’s thrusting faster than Mark’s heart is beating, making soft, nearly pained noises with every movement, and it’s driving Mark out of his fucking mind.

It doesn’t take much longer than a minute for Mark to sense the edge of that cliff approaching again. He opens his eyes and watches Ethan’s face in awe — the younger man’s cheeks and ears are flushed, his mouth agape, and his eyebrows are scrunched together above his tightly-closed eyes. He’s captivating, working so hard to make Mark feel good, and Mark loves him so much he’s sick with it.

“I-I’m close,” Mark says, barely able to form words past the immense tide of pleasure dragging him out to sea. “So close, Ethan, please, m-make me — ”

There’s a hand around his weeping cock a millisecond later. Ethan jacks him fast and rough, fucking into him impossibly harder, and peels his eyes open to gaze down into Mark’s.

“Come for me,” he all but commands, and the levee breaks.

Mark’s pretty sure he ascends to the astral plane when he comes. That may sound melodramatic, but there’s simply no other way to explain the sheer euphoria that floods his brain as he thrashes and cries out and paints his own stomach and chest with white. He clings to Ethan like a drowning man and screams through clenched teeth as his hips twitch up, up, up off the pillow cushioning them, seeking more — more friction, more heat, more Ethan. It travels from his pelvis to the tips of his fingers and toes, leaving his nerve endings crackling like 4th of July sparklers.

When it’s over, Mark goes completely limp, panting hard and moaning with every minute movement of Ethan’s cock still inside him. Ethan’s making tiny, urgent thrusts now, grinding desperately against Mark’s ass as he chases his own release. Mark opens his eyes again, sees Ethan’s twisted expression, and gathers as many brain cells as he can.

“C’mon, baby,” he says, voice raw and husky. He cards his fingers through Ethan’s hair, looks right into his hazy eyes, and clenches around him with a shudder. “C-Come in me, Eth, you d’serve it, _please,_ want you to do it — ”

_“Maaark!”_

Ethan doubles over on top of Mark as he comes, shouting and sobbing against Mark’s shoulder. His cock twitches inside Mark and his nails bite into the flesh of Mark’s thighs, relentless. Wet heat fills Mark up, and it’s just as amazing as he imagined it would be. He moans in harmony with Ethan, holding him close and huffing short breaths against his sweat-slick neck as they both shake apart.

Time slows down to a crawl for awhile after that. There’s breathless kisses, disbelieving giggles, and even funny faces when Ethan has to slowly pull out. Once again, Ethan is the one to climb off the bed and get a damp washcloth — this time, it’s because Mark isn’t sure if he can walk. There’s a dull, not entirely unpleasant ache in his hips and between his legs, and he’s having trouble feeling anything below his knees.

But holy shit, was it worth it.

Mark had completely understood Ethan’s admission earlier — that he’d always pictured himself on the, er, _receiving_ end when he thought about himself and Mark together. In all honesty, Mark had imagined the same dynamic. Maybe that Eric guy improved Ethan’s confidence in the bedroom so much, he changed his preferences altogether.

Or maybe Mark’s completely overthinking this and should just bask in the afterglow of the mind-blowing sex for a few minutes. All he knows is he thoroughly enjoyed what just happened, and wouldn’t dream of saying no to it happening again.

Ethan removes the ruined pillow from under Mark and cleans him up gently, dusting kisses over his cheekbones as he goes. He even helps Mark slip his boxers back on afterwards, having recovered them from the floor. Once those tedious tasks are over with, Ethan lies down on the bed beside Mark and lets Mark pull him close, cuddling up against the bigger man’s side like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

“So,” Mark says after a good five minutes of comfortable silence, “that definitely counts as fucking, right?”

Ethan splutters a surprised laugh, hiding his pink face in Mark’s neck. His whole body shakes with mirth. “Yeah, I think it does,” he says between chuckles.

“‘Kay, cool.” Mark buries a kiss in Ethan’s unruly hair and sighs, content but pensive. “I … liked that. A lot. More than I thought I would.”

For some reason, Mark is embarrassed by that confession. But Ethan just hums in understanding and kisses Mark’s jaw. “That’s okay. You like what you like, dude. I thought I’d only like getting fucked when I was with a guy until Eric offered to switch it up once — you only learn by actually doing it.”

Mark tenses up at the mention of Eric, and Ethan seems to notice. He pets Mark’s bare chest with a steady, soothing hand and drops a kiss to his collarbone. “You really shouldn’t be jealous of him,” he says, amusement coloring his tone just enough to be noticeable.

“I’m not jealous.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Well. Did I tell you what Eric looked like?”

“ … No. Why would that — ?”

“He was only an inch or two taller than me. Dark hair, dark eyes, liked to stay a little tan.” Ethan pushes himself up on one elbow to look down at Mark with a quirked eyebrow. Mark can kind of see where this is going. “He worked out, too, so he had a pretty sculpted body. And his _voice …_ god, it was deep and smooth and fucking _hot.”_

 _What the fuck._ Mark blinks up at Ethan a couple times, mouth opening and closing as he tries to come up with a clever retort. Ethan gives him ten seconds before rolling his eyes fondly and leaning down for a deep, hungry kiss. Mark returns it without hesitation and forgets the incredulity he’d felt only moments ago.

“He was a great guy,” Ethan continues when he pulls back, knocking his forehead against Mark’s. “He really was, and I learned to like him for him. But at the start, I was only attracted to him because he reminded me of a certain YouTuber.”

Mark shakes his head, momentarily speechless. He honestly doesn’t know what to do with that information. Obviously it reinforces the fact that Ethan’s had a thing for him for years, but it also raises the selfish question: If Mark is who Ethan’s wanted all along, why hasn’t he fallen in love with Mark yet? Yes, he’s only known Mark for about a week, but shouldn’t that last switch have been flipped in his head by now if he’s been holding a torch for Mark for seven years?

Is Mark doing something wrong?

As usual, Ethan notices the distress on Mark’s face and kisses it away again. “Eric is someone from my past who I really haven’t thought much about since he moved away,” he says decisively. “You’re my present, Mark. Feels kinda weird that I have to spell this out, but I will: You are the _only_ one I’m thinking about when we’re together.”

It’s too much of a _boyfriend_ statement for Mark to handle, but he plays it off with an easy, grateful smile and a gentle kiss to Ethan’s forehead. “If you say so,” he teases, giving Ethan a squeeze.

Ethan giggles and pokes Mark’s side playfully. “I do say so.”

They stay there for another few minutes, exchanging kisses and familiar banter, until Mark yawns twice in 30 seconds. Ethan hums and kisses the corner of his left eye. “You should take a nap,” he murmurs. “I’ve got some editing to do anyway. Why don’t you doze off for a little bit and I’ll wake you up in a few hours?”

Mark tries to reply, but he’s cut off by yet another yawn. He settles for an emphatic nod, kissing Ethan’s lips lightly. “Sounds good to me,” he whispers, already sinking further down into the pillows.

“Okay.” Ethan combs his fingers through Mark’s hair a couple times, kisses him again, and pushes himself up and off the warm bed. “I’ll make us a late lunch, too, since you made breakfast.”

“Yeah, good,” Mark mumbles, eyelids already drooping closed. He feels Ethan drape a blanket over him and kiss the top of his head, then hears his soft footsteps leave the bedroom.

As soon as the door clicks quietly shut, Mark’s exhausted mind circles back to his earlier pondering. He _knows_ how love is supposed to work; he _knows_ it takes longer than a week to really fall for someone. But then why does it feel so … personal that Ethan doesn’t love him yet? Ethan’s care for him is evident in every touch and smile and kiss, and it’s wonderful, but it isn’t love. Is there something else Mark can do?

Mark knows where this train of thought will lead him eventually — that latent hope buried deep in his chest will spark to life again, only to leave him devastated in two days when midnight rolls around and every memory of Ethan is purged from his mind forever.

He can’t let himself hope again. He just can’t.

As he finally drifts off to sleep, bone-tired and thoroughly fucked out, Mark presses his face into Ethan’s pillow and breathes in his comforting scent. It’s just another thing Mark knows he has to savor while he can, and he fully intends to do so.

When he dreams, he dreams of Los Angeles. He and Ethan are walking their dogs through Mark’s neighborhood, squinting in the bright sun of a Southern California spring afternoon. Ethan laughs at one of Mark’s bad jokes, and when he turns to smile at Mark, the love in his eyes is so real Mark can almost feel it.

* * *

They spend the next day and a half talking, mostly — over meals, during movies and TV shows, while playing MarioKart. Mark already knows a lot about Ethan, but he’s curious about the specifics of the path Ethan took to arrive where he is now. Ethan tells him on Monday about the disappointment he’d felt when he couldn’t afford to go to PAX 2017 to try to meet Mark again, and how that disappointment had lit a fire under him to make the best content he could in the hopes of getting to attend that convention as a creator.

“It’s only February,” he says as he selects his MarioKart character with the blue Switch remote. Mark had chosen the red one instinctively; he finds it incredible how the two of them still migrate towards the same colors in an alternate universe. “My goal is to reach 200K by the end of May — I’ve got some collabs lined up for the next month or so, so that should expand my reach. Hopefully if I can get there, I can apply to be part of a panel.”

After a pause, Ethan sends a quick sideways glance at Mark. “Honestly, the main reason I thought of doing that was because there were rumors last month that you’d be there again this year. When you quit a couple weeks ago … everyone kinda assumed you weren’t gonna come. But I still wanna hit my goal and be on a panel, so I’ll keep working towards that.”

Mark turns away from the TV to smile fondly at Ethan, even though his heart feels like it’s being twisted into a pretzel. “That’s great, man,” he says, genuine and earnest. “I’ve always told you how I think you’re one of the most talented and dedicated people on the platform. Should’ve known it would carry over here, too.”

Ethan blushes a lovely pink and bites his lip, fidgeting with his controller. “S-Stop sayin’ shit like that or I might get a crush on you,” he stammers before leaning in for a brief kiss.

Mark lets him win the next Grand Prix.

Almost all of their conversations happen like that — in quick snippets while they’re doing their best to distract themselves from the invisible hourglass hemorrhaging sand above their heads. Some are deeper, though, more personal, and those require actual focus to participate in. As tactfully as he can, Mark asks Ethan about his grandmother while they’re eating dinner on the couch Monday night. Fortunately(?), Ethan confirms that she passed away in August 2018, just as she had in Mark’s timeline. Mark doesn’t know how he’d feel if she was somehow still alive here.

It’s clearly still an emotional subject for Ethan, who gets a little choked up and apologizes as he dries his damp eyes on his hoodie sleeve. Mark feels guilty for bringing it up, so he decides to even the playing field by discussing something he hasn’t in years — Daniel.

He comes clean to an attentive Ethan about things he’s never told anyone but his mom and the therapist he’d gone to for a couple months after Daniel died. Ethan asks very few questions, preferring to let Mark take the reigns and just … talk about it. It’s painful to relive those twelve months, but — as he’s sure to emphasize — the best distraction for that pain had been Tyler and Ethan beginning to work with him.

“Having Tyler move out to L.A. was the first step in really moving on from everything,” Mark explains, “but you were the real catalyst for the renaissance of my channel. And my life, honestly.” Smiling a little sadly, he sets his empty pasta bowl on the coffee table and takes one of Ethan’s hands in his own. “You came in with so many great ideas on day one, and they _saved_ me. _You_ saved me, and I … I’m so sorry I forgot that.”

Ethan just sighs, shakes his head, and kisses Mark soundly. “I’m gonna tell you what I’m sure you’ve told hundreds of fans before,” he murmurs against Mark’s lips. “I didn’t save you. You saved yourself. I was just there for … moral support.”

Mark lets out a shaky breath and kisses Ethan again, drawing him in with a hand on the side of his neck. There’s nothing articulate he can say to that, so he tries to let the kiss speak for him.

While they’re talking and laughing and exchanging secrets, Mark and Ethan commit to enjoying every minute they have together. Mark pays special attention to the little details about Ethan he’d stopped noticing after knowing him for so long — the pale freckles dusting his nose and cheeks; the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles; the way he slaps his knee like an old man and presses his knuckles into his eyes when he laughs; the sound of his voice when he’s talking about something he’s genuinely interested in. Mark wishes he could spend his last couple days here just … watching Ethan exist. He never wants to forget the way his name sounds on Ethan’s lips, the feeling of his hair against his cheek, the way he tastes, smells, moves. Sometimes he’ll crack up laughing in the middle of a kiss and it’s the best thing Mark’s ever seen.

Of course, Mark also tries to memorize how it feels to be intimate with Ethan. No one’s ever been able to make Mark come as hard as Ethan does. Maybe it’s the ukulele callouses on his fingertips; maybe it’s the way he looks with red cheeks, dazed eyes, and a panting, kiss-bruised mouth. Maybe it’s the way he makes Mark feel more comfortable in bed than anyone ever has, whispering breathless encouragements and affirmations almost constantly as he guides Mark through his second-ever blowjob.

And _god._ Words will never be able to describe the way it feels to sink into Ethan’s waiting and willing ass. They’re fooling around on Tuesday night, trying to push aside the knowledge that this is their last full night together, when Ethan arches his back under Mark and begs, “Fuck me, Mark, _fuck me,_ p-please — !”

Heart racing with arousal and anxiety, Mark fumbles his way through fingering Ethan open, pausing to collect himself when he finds Ethan’s prostate and Ethan throws his head back to let out the filthiest moan Mark’s ever heard. Ethan talks him through it until he can’t anymore, reduced to a quivering bundle of nerves and skin and need by the time Mark has three fingers inside him.

It’s the most cliché thing ever, Mark knows, but as he grits his teeth and slowly presses inside Ethan, it really does feel like coming home.

Ethan’s gymnast background comes in handy when Mark grips his thighs and pushes his legs up. The younger man ends up practically folded in half, knees almost bracketing his ears, but he just scrabbles at Mark’s strong shoulders and drags him down for a kiss as Mark starts to thrust.

And. Holy _shit._

Mark never knew sex could feel this good. “Vanilla” is a fair descriptor of his preferences in the bedroom; he’s never tried — or even _wanted_ to try — anything as adventurous as anal sex with any of his past girlfriends. But _holy shit._ Ethan is so hot and tight and slick around him, taking him so well, responding gorgeously every time Mark hits the right spot or sets the perfect pace. It’s addictive, and Mark loses himself in it pretty quickly, fucking into Ethan harder and faster with every desperate plea that leaves Ethan’s lips.

Even through the mind-numbing pleasure drenching his senses, Mark makes sure Ethan comes first. He twists his hips savagely and jacks Ethan’s cock as fast as he can until the younger man sobs, exploding all over Mark’s hand and both their stomachs. Twitching and writhing, Ethan clenches around Mark like a vice, and Mark only lasts half a dozen thrusts more before his own orgasm hits him like a freight train. He digs his nails into Ethan’s thighs, buries his face in Ethan’s neck, and comes with a snarl deep inside him. His hips keep moving for a minute, hitching forwards over and over until Ethan whimpers from overstimulation. The sound is so delicious it almost eggs Mark on, but he stops immediately, kissing Ethan sloppily as the mess between them cools.

Forgetting how that kiss feels, how Ethan shivers and giggles breathlessly as Mark pulls out, how he looks up at Mark with the wonder of someone watching a solar eclipse, seems impossible. But Mark knows it isn’t.

A few hours later, sitting cross-legged on the bed together, they watch the second-to-last small stone on the amulet turn a charred black. Mark cradles the cursed necklace in his palms and stares helplessly at it, tears streaming silently down his face, until Ethan scoops it up and drops it on the nightstand. “Fuck that thing,” Ethan spits, his own despair peeking through his anger. Grabbing Mark’s shaking hands, he intertwines their fingers and presses their foreheads together. “I care about you. I _care,_ so fucking much, and I want you to stay with me. I — I even remembered, once. _Why_ … ?”

That’s the question Mark’s been asking himself since all this tomfuckery started, and he has yet to come up with a valid answer. Shelly had told him he had a lesson to learn, but he’s _learned_ it already. He’ll never take Ethan or any of his friends for granted again, he swears, _fuck,_ he just wants to go home.

They fall asleep holding each other, tear tracks staining their cheeks, nose-to-nose like lovers on a sinking ship. After all, isn’t that what they are?

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, next chapter is a hefty one, so stay tuned!! Hope this one was a nice, fluffy, cute, hot break from the existentialism of the last few chapters — well, apart from the end, lol. <333 See ya tomorrow!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another doozy of a chapter for all of you!! Only two left after this one — one shorter, one longer. I only just realized today (because I’m terrible at math and calendars and whatnot) that I’ll be posting the final chapter on the night of my birthday!! I honestly didn’t plan that out at all — i posted the first chapter of this fic the same day i finished it because i was so eager to share it, and i didn’t think ahead at all!! I think it’s kinda nice, though. My birthday present to myself will be offering you the final part of my favorite fic I’ve written, and i can’t think of anything better :)
> 
> ALRIGHT, so there’s plenty of liberties taken in this chapter, probably. As i said once before, everything i learned about Portland and Cape Elizabeth and all the tourist attractions therein came from google searches. And google earth. I looked up a TIDE CHART for February 12, 2020. SO if there’s any inaccuracies, and I’m sure there are a couple, blame the internet!! The same goes for the stories about Ethan’s childhood and everything — everything mentioned in this fic is info i got from Unus Annus videos, Ethan’s videos, and random wikis, so it might not all be 100% true. ALSO: I’m fairly certain Mark has visited Portland before, but for the sake of this fic, he hasn’t. 
> 
> Other than that note, there’s nothing else i think i should mention here. Hope you enjoy the story of Mark and Eef’s last(?) day together — fair warning, it does get sappy a couple times. I can’t help myself.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! <3

One of humanity’s strangest powers is its occasional ability to look Death right in his gaunt, skeletal face and say, “I don’t recognize you,” mere days after being decimated by him.

When someone close to you — a friend, a relative, even a pet — passes away, at first it’s the only thing on your mind for days. Every song reminds you of them; every word elicits another memory of them; every place you used to exist in with them is suddenly too painful to visit. For awhile, the only thing you want — more than money, more than food, more than empty comfort from those who don’t understand — is to have that person back.

Grief is different for everyone, of course. But it eventually tapers off, and life begins to feel less heavy. Whether that takes weeks, months, or years to happen depends on the person, but it does happen.

And you start to forget.

You stop thinking about whoever you lost every day. You stop immediately associating their favorite movies, restaurants, and music with them. In some ways, you just … move on.

But then something small happens, or you have a random impulse to tell or show them something, and you remember they’re gone. When that memory finally surfaces in your mind like a rotten, stinking piece of driftwood, you feel it like it’s that first horrific day all over again. And Death asks you as you fall to your knees and stare into his empty eyes, _How could you have forgotten?_

Mark’s last day with Ethan starts that way. He wakes up to Ethan’s hair in his face, tickling his nose, and has to hold back a sneeze. He can tell from the bluish light filtering through the bedroom window that it’s still early in the morning, maybe 7 or 8, and he yawns soundlessly before closing his eyes again. Maybe he can get another hour or two of sleep before Ethan wakes, save up some energy for their day exploring Portland together —

_Their last day together._

The knowledge washes over Mark in a cold deluge. He’s catapulted back to reality faster than a blink, and it leaves him gasping for breath and clinging tighter to Ethan’s sleeping form.

Ethan must sense his distress, because he stirs in Mark’s arms and hums in the back of his throat. He’s still asleep, nose nestled in the crook of Mark’s neck, and Mark holds him as close as possible to keep him from disappearing from the bed.

Mark’s trembling limbs and poor attempts to stifle his terrified sobs eventually jar Ethan awake. Grumbling, he squirms against Mark and pulls away just far enough to see Mark’s face. “What’s — ?”

His voice dies in his throat when he sees the tears on Mark’s cheeks, the despair in his eyes, and his expression morphs from curious to bereaved. Mark just shakes his head and holds Ethan impossibly tighter, squeezing his eyes shut. Still groggy with sleep, Ethan hugs him just as tight and presses his lips to Mark’s neck in an apologetic, mournful kiss.

This is it, and they both know it.

Once Mark’s cried himself out and kissed away Ethan’s tears, Ethan manages to drag him out of bed and lead him to the bathroom. “I’ll make breakfast while you shower,” he says hastily, like he doesn’t want to waste a moment. Mark doesn’t, either, so he obeys, getting shampoo in his eyes when he tries to wash his hair at an inhuman speed.

Yet another thing that astounds Mark about this timeline is how Ethan has become the more emotionally stable of the two of them. He spends the whole morning telling Mark random stories, talking about plans he has for his channel, and making lame jokes in a transparent attempt to keep Mark distracted. Eventually, it works — Mark’s fake smiles and laughs become more real the longer Ethan talks, and soon he’s chiming in with his own funny anecdotes and commentary like nothing’s wrong. It feels … good, and Mark wants the rest of the day to feel good, too.

They only have two options: Make the most of the day in whatever way they can, or wallow in self-pity and weep in each other’s arms until midnight. From the determined look on Ethan’s face as he describes all the places around town he’s going to show Mark today, it’s clear which option he’s chosen. Despite the constant ache in his heart, it’s an easy choice for Mark, too.

It’s just past 10 by the time they leave the apartment, and the first thing they notice is the snow. There’s a good two inches blanketing the ground and both their cars, and it’s still coming down. Mark dusts some flakes out of his hair and zips his jacket up against the sudden chill. “You should probably drive,” he tells Ethan, pressing closer to him as they walk towards the cars. “I don’t think I’ve driven in snow in two years — I’d send us into a tree or something.”

“Yeeeah, I think I’ll be the chauffeur today,” Ethan replies with a light chuckle. His nose and cheeks are already turning pink in the cold, and it’s perfect. “‘Sides, I’m already the tour guide.”

“You are, aren’t you?” Mark opens the passenger door of Ethan’s car once it’s unlocked and grabs the snow brush from the footwell. He sets to work clearing the snow off the windows and roof, thankful ice hasn’t formed yet. “Hope I get my money’s worth.”

Ethan scoffs in mock offense as he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the ignition. “Oh, I’m really expensive.”

“How expensive we talkin’?” Mark asks, easily going along with the bit. He tosses the brush onto the back seat and buckles himself in, rubbing his numb hands together to restore blood flow.

“Like five, ten an hour.”

“ … Five or ten what, euros? Shekels? I think I should’ve been informed of the currency you take before I — ”

Mark’s melodramatic tirade is cut off by a brief, firm kiss. He blinks in surprise at Ethan, who just smirks and takes his hand over the center console. “Five or ten of those,” Ethan says, squeezing Mark’s cold fingers as he carefully pulls the car away from the curb. “Though my prices do go up depending on the length of the tour.”

As far as cheesy bits go, this one’s up there. Mark would roll his eyes and give Ethan endless shit for it in any other circumstance. Right now, though, he just says, “However long your longest tour was, I’m prepared to double it.” He draws mindless circles with his left thumb on the back of Ethan’s right hand and watches the winter wonderland pass by his window as Ethan turns onto the main road.

Breakfast had been lighthearted, but now, small talk is suddenly difficult. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it has a weight to it. Mark tries to focus on the faint music playing on the radio and the feeling of Ethan’s hand in his, telling himself everything’s fine and ignoring that sinister voice in his head spewing reminders at him: _These are your final 14 hours with him, the clock is ticking, time is running out and there’s nothing either of you can do to stop it now._ It’s so hard to shove that voice to the back of his mind, but Mark somehow does it through sheer force of will. He’s not gonna let anything ruin this day for him or Ethan — they deserve to be happy today, goddamn it.

Mark is broken out of his thoughts after a minute by the sound of Ethan hissing softly in pain. He turns to look at the younger man and sees him swiveling his head from side to side, wincing a bit every time he faces left. Despite this, he’s grinning to himself like he’s harboring a secret. Mark blinks at him, perplexed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ethan says, giving Mark’s hand another squeeze. If Mark isn’t mistaken, there’s a new blush spreading across his cheeks. “‘S just … that bite you left on my neck last night kinda hurts.”

“Oh.” Mark blushes himself and glances at Ethan’s neck — which is strategically covered by the same black turtleneck from a couple days ago. The borrowed gray scarf wrapped around his own bruised throat suddenly feels tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I like it.” Ethan looks away from the road briefly to turn and smile right at Mark. Behind his glasses, his eyes look even bluer against the backdrop of snow, glittering like icicles. “It’s a memory I can feel.”

Mark huffs out a breath as his heart swells in his chest. Emotion threatens to overwhelm him for a few seconds, but he works through it and manages a tight smile. “Well. In that case, you’re welcome, I guess.”

“Thank you.” Ethan leans over for a kiss, swift and familiar, as he coasts to a stop at a red light. “Okay, so. Our first stop is gonna be Old Port, which is pretty much downtown Portland. There’s a bunch of shops and theaters and restaurants to check out if you want — I know the history behind some of the places, kinda. Then we can grab lunch somewhere and head down to Cape Elizabeth.”

Mark nods in understanding, but he’s a little confused. “Is that, like, a town, or a tourist spot?”

“Both, I guess — it’s a lighthouse, but it’s also the town I grew up in,” Ethan says, shooting Mark a sideways glance as he makes a right turn. “I thought you said you knew almost everything about me?”

“I don’t think I ever said _that,”_ Mark insists playfully. “I know a lot about you, yes, but I always thought Portland was where you grew up.”

“Nope. I moved to Portland in 2016 because I wanted to get out of my dad’s basement,” Ethan explains. “He was super supportive of my channel and of me in general, but. I needed a place of my own. I didn’t wanna move too far away from my parents and grandparents, though, so I looked around in Scarborough and Portland before finding the apartment I’m in now.”

“Gotcha.” Mark feels a little dumb for not knowing a lot of that information. He’d known about the support Ethan’s dad had given him, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard of Cape Elizabeth before. How could he have not known such a crucial detail about Ethan’s life? He’s almost certain Ethan knows he grew up in Milford, Ohio; he might even know the name of Mark’s high school. Mark can’t even remember Ethan’s birthday most of the time.

A depressingly familiar feeling of _I’m an asshole holy shit_ washes over Mark, and he shakes his head at himself. “There’s a lot I don’t know about your life before you moved to Portland, then,” he says softly.

Ethan frowns, but he looks more curious than upset. “Why?”

“I guess I just never thought to ask.” Mark stares down at their still-joined hands and lets out a deep sigh. “I told you, I can be kind of a bad friend sometimes.”

“You gotta stop saying that about yourself.”

“It’s true, though. I can admit it.”

“Then you can make it up to me by letting me blather on about my boring life all day.” Ethan looks at Mark again with a fond but insistent expression. “And by letting yourself have a little fun today. Okay?”

Mark heaves another sigh and nods. Despite everything, he really is looking forward to seeing more of Ethan’s world. He can ignore the futility of it enough to enjoy it. Can’t he?

Five minutes later, they reach the downtown area. Ethan tracks down cheap parking near Monument Square and leads Mark by the hand down a red cobblestone sidewalk towards the center of town. It’s a snowy day, but it’s sunny, and the wind isn’t vicious enough to make the cold unbearable, so Mark doesn’t mind braving the elements for awhile. He does briefly wish he at least had a thicker coat, but the hoodie-scarf-jacket combo works fine for now.

He still squeezes Ethan’s hand tighter every time a brisk breeze rolls by, but Ethan doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it only makes him pull Mark closer.

They stop in a little French bistro for coffee to-go before continuing on towards the Portland Museum of Art. Mark isn’t a huge history buff, but he’s still fascinated by the centuries-old brick buildings lining the streets. It reminds him of some areas of downtown Cincinnati, and when he turns to tell Ethan this, he’s struck momentarily speechless by the sight of him: Ethan’s face is cold-bitten and pink, but he’s smiling behind his paper coffee cup, snowflakes clinging to the tufts of chestnut hair sticking out from the bottom of his dark blue knit beanie. There’s nothing but contentment in his eyes when he glances over at Mark. “What?”

Mark just lets out a deep breath and shakes his head. “Nothing,” he murmurs. “You’re just … beautiful.”

It’s lame and cheesy as fuck, but Ethan’s face gets even redder. If they weren’t walking down a semi-crowded street, Mark might’ve pulled him in for a kiss right there. “Shut the fuck up,” Ethan mutters, actively trying _not_ to smile now. “I’ll dump my coffee on you.”

“Mmm. Then I’d have to change my clothes.” Mark leans in to whisper right in Ethan’s ear, his nose brushing the edge of the beanie. “We could find a clothing store, hide out in the changing rooms for awhile — ”

 _“Mark!”_ Ethan hisses, scandalized, and shoves at Mark’s shoulder with his own as Mark giggles. “That is _not_ how you talk to your tour guide!”

“Well, my tour guide is distracting me from the tour. … It looks like he’s also _limping_ — ”

“I’m warning you, this coffee is still scalding hot!”

This banter continues all the way to the museum. Mark doesn’t even care that Ethan didn’t tell him about the history of the small plaza they’d passed, or point out any cool restaurants on the nearby side streets. He’d much rather listen to Ethan’s laughter all day.

Ethan pays for their museum tickets when they arrive, despite Mark’s protests, and shifts slightly closer to tour guide mode as they start to peruse the exhibits. Mark’s always fancied himself more of a zoo guy than a museum guy, but he takes a genuine interest in the galleries around him, especially the Andy Warhol pieces. Ethan tells him about taking field trips here as a kid and having to do a report on Winslow Homer for his high school art class, but Mark’s only half-listening. He’s too busy memorizing the way Ethan’s mouth moves as he speaks, how the dimmer indoor lighting changes the hue of his eyes, how his expression becomes more and more exasperated the more he talks about school. Familiar and unfamiliar expressions paint his face with character and color, and Mark wishes he could take a picture of him like this to cherish forever. Or better yet, immortalize him on one of the canvases lining the walls around them.

Mark tries to remember if Ethan’s ever looked this at-home anywhere in L.A., but he can’t. Despite taking to the west coast like a fish to water soon after moving there, Ethan’s never been able to shake his New England roots. Which is something Mark’s always been fascinated by — Ohio isn’t that far from the east coast, but hearing Ethan talk about visiting the Adirondacks and Appalachians in the fall and traversing the streets of Boston in the summer makes it sound like he grew up in a different country entirely.

It’s a wonder Mark’s never flown up here with Ethan before. Ethan’s been to Mark’s mom’s house in Cincinnati, visited King’s Island and the Cincinnati Zoo with him, but never once has Mark expressed a desire to walk in the footsteps of Ethan’s past.

 _At least I’m here now,_ he thinks, holding Ethan’s hand a little tighter as they make their way to the PMA Café for a quick lunch. _For however brief a time._

Ethan orders another sugary coffee and a chocolate pastry of some kind, while Mark decides on a pre-packaged sandwich and a bottle of water. They settle at a table for two in a corner of the café, chairs pushed up next to each other as they pick at their overpriced meals in comfortable silence. At one point, Ethan’s phone buzzes, but he quickly ignores it after a brief glance at the screen. Something occurs to Mark then, and he asks around a mouthful of turkey and cheddar, “Have you been ignoring texts and calls since I got here?”

“Kinda? Depends on who they’re from,” Ethan replies eventually. He picks at his croissant-danish thing and takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee, looking almost sheepish. “I, uh. My dad actually wanted to get lunch yesterday, but I told him one of my friends from high school was visiting from Vermont.”

Mark feels a quick pang of guilt, but pushes it to the back of his mind. “You could’ve spent some time with him,” he says, poor appetite diminishing further as the traitorous voice in his head snarls, _What does it even matter?_ “Hell, I wouldn’t’ve minded meeting him. I have before, but. Not here, obviously.”

“Trust me, Mark. If my parents found out Markiplier had taken an interest in my channel and was _staying at my apartment,_ the questions would’ve been endless.” Plucking at the collar of his sweater, Ethan smirks a bit and shakes his head. “Plus, I dunno how we would’ve been able to hide everything. I know how hard it was for you to pretend around me for the first few days, and I didn’t wanna make you do that again.”

“I would’ve been fine,” Mark insists, but they both know he’s lying. Just the thought of having to suppress his feelings for Ethan again is nauseating. “You didn’t have to go off the grid for me, man.”

“I know. I wanted to.” Ethan bites his lip, glances quickly around the sparsely-populated café, and takes Mark’s hand. Their fingers tangle together on the white tabletop, natural as anything; Mark never wants to let go. “I kinda liked the idea of … keeping you to myself. And when you told me how little time we had left together, the only thing I wanted to do was be around you as much as I could. So.”

Ethan shrugs one shoulder and nudges Mark’s foot under the table with his own. “I told my dad I’d do lunch with him next week.”

Mark flip-flops between feeling guilty and honored that Ethan would isolate himself from the world for his sake, but he eventually settles on grateful. “I have to kiss you,” he mutters, leaning in a couple inches closer without sparing a thought for the people around them. Someone could recognize him, plaster this all over Twitter, and out him to the world in seconds, but Mark just doesn’t care. He doesn’t have time to be self-conscious and afraid anymore. “Can I?”

With a fond grin and no hesitation, Ethan nods and brushes his nose against Mark’s. “Yeah,” he whispers with a soft giggle as his eyes flicker closed.

Since he started YouTube, Mark hasn’t kissed anyone in public. At first, it was simply because he wasn’t in a relationship and therefore didn’t have anyone to publicly kiss. But as his channel grew and he became more well-known, he decided his romantic life would be one of the things he kept mostly behind closed doors. Amy had been his first and only significant other to appear on his channel and social media in any capacity. There’s a few photos out there of Mark kissing her on the cheek and holding her close with an arm around her waist, but that had been Mark’s PDA Limit.

There’s something freeing about shirking that shyness, that reluctance to be seen in love. This kiss is chaste and relatively brief, but it’s the first time Mark’s kissed anyone in a public place that wasn’t a friend’s wedding or backstage at a convention. On top of that, he’s a semi-celebrity in a public relationship with a woman, kissing a _guy_ in a _restaurant_ surrounded by a dozen strangers. Some people would consider that kind of risky. But Mark is totally, irrevocably out of fucks to give.

It’s electrifying.

Because he still has some sense of decorum, Mark doesn’t wind his hands in Ethan’s hair and start devouring him in the middle of this bougie café. He breaks the kiss after a good ten seconds but lingers, resting his forehead against Ethan’s and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You taste like chocolate,” he murmurs.

Ethan blushes and blinks his eyes open to stare into Mark’s from centimeters away. “You taste like lunch meat and coffee,” he replies. “But it works for you, I guess.”

It’s so easy to forget they only have about 12 hours left together when Mark swears he can see forever in Ethan’s oceanic eyes. “If I recall,” he says, slowly leaning back to catch his breath properly, “your rate is five kisses an hour. There was the two in the car, and then this one, so … I think I owe you, like, six or seven by now.”

“And my meter’s still running, mister.” Ethan lets go of Mark’s hand and starts gathering up their trash, clearly biting back an eager smile. “I think we can find somewhere around here for you to, er, pay your dues.”

“Eugh, when you say it like _that —_ ”

“What?!”

It’s almost too easy to find their way to the empty conference rooms. Mark follows Ethan down to the lower level of the building, half-expecting him to back out of the bit any second, but he doesn’t. An unfamiliar thrill shoots up Mark’s spine as Ethan tugs him through the Object Stories gallery and into a small, miraculously unlocked room. It smells dusty, like it hasn’t been used in awhile. “This is crazy,” Mark says as Ethan closes the door behind them, but he’s not complaining.

“‘S not like we’re gonna fuck in here,” Ethan replies. When he turns to look back at Mark, his eyes glint with mischief in the near-complete darkness of the room. “And we can’t make out out there or it’ll be trending on Twitter in twenty minutes. So.”

“Listen, I never said it was _bad_ crazy.” Mark closes the distance between them in two strides, wrapping his arms around Ethan’s waist. Ethan melts against him immediately. “What if someone finds us in here?”

Beaming, Ethan grabs the ends of Mark’s scarf and pulls him closer. “We flip ‘em off and run. Maybe steal a couple sculptures on the way out. Not like it’ll matter tomorrow, right?”

He has a point.

All Mark can do in response is shake his head in awe and lean in for a deep, indulgent kiss. He slowly backs Ethan up against the nearest wall, boxing him in and shielding him from the rest of the world as they kiss and kiss like they aren’t drowning in hourglass sand.

They’re both still wearing their winter layers, so it doesn’t take long for Mark to start sweating a bit. He keeps the kiss going, though, a steady give-and-take that sets every one of his senses alight. This moment — Ethan’s mouth moving effortlessly against his, Ethan’s body warm and pliant in his arms, Ethan’s hands creeping up into his hair — is one Mark wants to carry with him forever. Even though he knows that’s impossible, some small part of his aching heart knows that even if he can’t remember Ethan, he’ll always love him. In some inter-dimensional way, the two of them are linked, destined to orbit each other like stars around a black hole until they’re inevitably torn to pieces. They’ll always be a part of each other, whether they know it or not.

Mark prolongs the kiss for as long as he can until he has to pull back to catch his breath and cool off. His lips part from Ethan’s with a soft sound and his eyes open slowly, taking in the image of Ethan flushed and panting against him. The younger man’s expression is … off, somehow, but he yanks Mark back in before Mark has a chance to ask what’s wrong.

This kiss feels more desperate, more needy, and Ethan’s clinging to Mark like he’s afraid he’ll dissolve into thin air if he lets go. Mark tries to respond in kind, but Ethan’s vibrating with a frantic energy that’s kind of alarming. “Hey,” Mark gasps between their lips, breaking away again. “What’s — ”

Ethan ignores him. With an urgent whine, he cranes up for another harsh kiss, eyes squeezed tightly shut. At first it seems like he’s going back on his “we’re not gonna fuck in here” declaration, but the kiss isn’t lustful. It’s passionate, yes, but it also feels … sad. Mark is suddenly reminded of how he’d felt kissing Amy at LAX nine long days ago.

Bringing his hands up to Ethan’s wrists, Mark carefully pries Ethan’s trembling fingers out of his hair before pushing him away with a gentle nudge. “Eth, come on,” he murmurs, lips kiss-bitten and tingling. He holds Ethan’s hands tight and breathes deep and even, hoping Ethan will copy him. “What’s going on?”

Swallowing hard, Ethan opens his eyes and fixes Mark with a helpless stare. “I was … ” He bites his lip, fingers curling loosely around Mark’s as he exhales harshly through his nose. “ … I-I was trying to remember.”

_Oh._

Mark feels his heart sink to the floor as Ethan continues, his face betraying every emotion swirling in his head: “I’ve felt more in the past few days with you than I ever have with _anyone._ My chest is, like — it feels like it’s gonna explode with everything I feel for you, and I _want_ to say I … but according to that fucking necklace, I guess I don’t. A-And I don’t know why I can’t just rewire my brain and _make_ myself fall for you, because I _want_ to, Mark. I-I know I _could,_ if we just had a little more time. But no matter how hard I try, or how much I want you to stay with me, it just doesn’t fucking matter. And it’s not fair, it’s not _fucking_ fair, and I’m sorry.”

He isn’t quite crying, but there’s tears clinging to his long eyelashes by the time he’s done speaking. Mark just feels numb. With a deep sigh, he wraps his arms around Ethan and hugs him tight, breathing in his scent and relishing every movement of Ethan’s chest against his. Ethan’s arms wind around Mark’s shoulders as he huffs out uneven breaths into Mark’s neck.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Mark rumbles against Ethan’s ear after a minute. “I told you already, you can’t force yourself to feel something.”

Nuzzling further into Mark’s scarf, Ethan makes a muffled, distressed noise. “I know, I _know,_ but it still isn’t fair,” he mutters as his fingers grip Mark’s jacket tighter. “You deserve to be back where you belong, where we can be together. For real, I mean.”

“Ethan.” Mark reluctantly extracts himself from Ethan’s hold and meets his eyes, offering a small smile. “Do you see where I am right now?”

“ … In a tiny room in a museum?”

Mark actually manages a quick laugh at that, but he shakes his head. “I’m in a tiny room in a museum, _with you.”_

He takes a deep breath, trying to mash the amalgamation of thoughts he’s had all day into something articulate. After a couple seconds, he decides to just trust his mouth to spit out the words in the right order. “I still have my memories from home right now. I can look back on all the good times we had, all the places we’ve been, all the things we accomplished. And you — you’ve given me so many more good memories to add to that list.”

Ethan’s expression finally cracks, and a single tear trails down his cheek as he listens. Mark fights hard to keep speaking past the lump in his throat. “I-I can add ones like … like falling asleep next to you and waking up in your bed. Slow dancing with you in your kitchen. Making breakfast for you. Kissing you. Holding you. _Loving_ you. I never thought I’d get to do any of that, in _any_ timeline.”

Background noises from the other side of the nearby door fade into nothing as Mark rests his forehead against Ethan’s and cups the side of his face in one hand. They’re both fighting for control over their emotions now, but Mark keeps going. These are things he’s been meaning to tell Ethan for days now, and he needs to get them out.

“So if this is all I get,” he whispers, “I don’t care. Not anymore. I-I’ve already lived a life with you, and it was amazing. It was more than enough. I don’t belong to a timeline or a universe — I belong to you, _with_ you, and … no matter how it ends, I’m so fucking lucky to spend this day right where I belong.”

The words hang in the air between them for a minute, ringing with a finality that no longer sends Mark into an existential spiral. Sniffling, Ethan bites his quivering lower lip and wraps Mark’s wrist in a gentle but possessive grip. “I-I wish I’d tried harder to get to you at PAX,” he chokes out after a few deep breaths. “But I guess knowing we’re best friends in one universe is enough for me, too. I … I adore you, Mark.”

Mark kisses him again, steady as a painter’s hand, and he doesn’t stop until the tears have dried on their cheeks.

* * *

It takes a few more minutes for them to compose themselves enough that they won’t draw attention. Mark resolves not to let Ethan leave the room until he’s smiling again, which is accomplished through a combination of dumb jokes and ticklish kisses. Maybe it’s temporary, but it’s worth it to hear him giggle when Mark nips at his earlobe. They sneak out of the dark classroom as stealthily as possible, holding in their laughter at the few confused looks thrown their way as they speedwalk to the stairs. No one’s pointing any phone cameras at them and the two security guards they pass don’t seem particularly concerned about anything, so their escape is successful.

Since the art museum had been the Big Thing Ethan had wanted to show Mark downtown, the next couple hours or so are spent walking the streets of Old Port and dipping in and out of shops. Mostly, they’re spent talking — well, Ethan talks and Mark just asks the occasional question, content to listen to Ethan’s voice. Mark can’t help but notice how well the younger man fits in amidst the snow and cobblestone and brick as he describes the (most likely inaccurate) histories of a few parks and older buildings they pass. And the whole time, never once does he let go of Mark’s hand.

“I wish you could’ve seen it in the summer,” Ethan says as they walk up to the parking garage they’d left his car in. It’s around two p.m. now, and the snow has started falling more heavily, making him wrinkle his nose every time a flake lands on it. “Or in the fall, even. There’s so many more people, so it feels like a much bigger city than it is. We could’ve gotten ice cream and hung out in Deering Oaks for awhile, or walked part of the Back Cove Trail.”

They’re all nice thoughts, and Mark lets himself indulge in them for a minute. He can just picture Ethan speckled by sunlight under a canopy of lush green leaves, laughing as he drops a spoonful of vanilla ice cream onto his jeans. Mark would call him clumsy and mercilessly tease him about it, only to be punished by karma when he laughs too hard and his own chocolate cone meets the pavement below his feet. Ethan would mock him in return, but as they left the park, he’d stop at the same vendor they’d visited earlier and buy Mark a fresh cone.

“I’d’ve loved that,” Mark replies finally, the fantasy playing out like a movie in his head. “Wish I could show you Cincinnati, too. Milford isn’t much to write home about, but we could’ve skulked around my old high school, or seen a movie in town.”

Ethan smiles to himself and gives Mark’s hand a gentle squeeze. “That sounds awesome. There’s a music festival there every summer that I’ve wanted to go to forever — uh, Bee, Beebunny? Burberry?”

Chuckling at Ethan’s ever-present proclivity for making up words, Mark says, “I think you mean Bunbury.”

“Oh. Right.” Then Ethan’s cracking up, too, and they both giggle like fools the rest of the way to the car. The sound of Ethan’s laughter has always been a near-perfect cure for any funk Mark’s found himself in over the past few years, and it still works wonders even here.

Five minutes later, they’re driving over the river again and Mark is staring worriedly at the gray sky. It’s not too late in the day yet, but it seems darker outside than it had even half an hour ago. “Was there a blizzard or anything forecast for today?”

“Hmm? No, I don’t think so.” Ethan leans forward over the steering wheel to peer up at the sky himself. “Doesn’t look too bad, honestly. Shit always blows up along the coast. It’s supposed to get a lot colder as the sun goes down, though, so this half of the tour will be mostly … vehicular.”

Snickering softly, Mark brings the hand he’s still holding up to his mouth for a lingering kiss. “Fine by me.”

Playing music in the car has never been something Mark could get into. Music — that is, anything besides classical and whatever genres Ed Sheeran and Here Come the Mummies are — has never been an integral part of his life. Before the brief hyperfixation with learning to play guitar a few years ago, he never casually listened to music on car rides or planes, and he still doesn’t often. But the silence between him and Ethan right now, while comfortable, is just another opportunity for his thoughts to careen down the crevice of despair he’s been working so hard for days to hold them back from.

“You can turn on the radio if you want,” Mark tells Ethan after a couple minutes of this silence. “Sorry for not being better conversation.”

“You really are the worst,” Ethan teases with a sly sideways glance. He lets go of Mark’s hand briefly to fiddle with the volume knob. A song Mark’s never heard before flares to life from the speakers, and he feels a little awkward when Ethan starts humming along, clearly familiar with it.

_“And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass / Of what was everything / All the pictures have all been washed in black / Tattooed everything … ”_

It’s angsty and grungy, so it makes sense Ethan likes it. Mark watches him tap his fingertips against the steering wheel, drumming along to the bass line. “Who sings this?” Mark asks, genuinely curious.

Ethan glances at him in confusion. “Are you serious?”

“ … Yes?”

“This is Pearl Jam.” Mark blinks. “Eddie Vedder?” Mark shakes his head, at a loss. “You honestly don’t know who Pearl Jam is?!”

“Should I?” Mark can tell Ethan’s more surprised than judgmental, but he still blushes faintly, embarrassed. “Look, man, I don’t listen to music! I know, like, ten songs, tops.”

“You don’t have to listen to music to know who fucking _Pearl —_ y’know what, it’s fine.” Ethan shakes his head in both exasperation and fondness, dragging his thumb back and forth over Mark’s reassuringly. “Every time I think I’ve got you figured out, you throw something new at me,” he says, something like wonder in his voice.

“Yeah, well, y’know.” Mark blushes brighter and stares at Ethan’s face in profile. “Full of surprises, that’s me.”

Ethan huffs out a soft laugh through his nose and hums in agreement. The next verse of the song starts, and Mark swears he hears real pain in the singer’s voice.

_“I know someday you'll have a beautiful life / I know you'll be a star in somebody else's sky, but why / Why, why can't it be, oh can't it be mine?”_

Mouthing every word, Ethan grips Mark’s hand tighter. His smile freezes on his face, stiff and cold as the wind over the harbor, and Mark’s heart remembers it’s supposed to be hurting.

* * *

It becomes apparent pretty quickly that Ethan knows a lot more about Cape Elizabeth than Portland. Nostalgia glows in his eyes as he drives up and down the streets of his childhood, pointing out landmarks and old haunts as they pass. It’s a small town, more suburban than Portland by a long shot, but Mark likes it. He’s almost jealous that Ethan got to grow up so close to the ocean — the whole time they’re driving around town, they’re never more than five minutes from the coast, and it’s awesome. Hell, even though there aren’t any movie theaters, there’s _two_ state parks within a mile of each other.

Mark is surprised to find how eager he is to see Ethan’s high school. It’s nothing special — Ethan even flips it off as they do a quick drive-by — but there’s something strangely intimate about visiting a place Ethan spent four years of his life, even if they were miserable years.

“Fuckin’ hated high school,” Ethan mutters as they leave the front entrance in the rear-view. “I had good friends, and some of the classes were fun, but the administration had no idea what to do with my ADD, dyslexic ass. My parents splitting up sophomore year didn’t help.”

Kissing Ethan’s knuckles again, Mark nods in understanding. “Anyone who says high school was the best time of their life leads a pretty mediocre life, if you ask me,” he says.

“I totally agree.” Ethan makes a left turn down a residential street, his eyes scanning the houses like he knows who lives in each one. “Did you have a good experience? I think the whole world knows you were in marching band, but besides that.”

“Yeah, band was pretty much the only form of socializing I did in high school. Wrestling and track, too, but I think I was closer with my friends from band.” The memory of telling Ethan about his botched regionals trumpet solo flits through his mind, and he almost smiles. “I was a total wallflower. Never talked, hated raising my hand in class. It’s a fucking miracle I ever got a girlfriend.”

Ethan actually laughs at that, eyes crinkling sweetly behind his glasses. “I think I’ve seen photos of you from then, and I gotta say, you’re probably right,” he chuckles. Mark can’t help but join in. “That hair … _oof.”_

“Oh, god, it was _terrible._ I have no idea why my mom let me leave the house looking like that.”

“Hey, at least you didn’t look twelve until you were twenty. Even as a senior, people would mistake me for a freshman all the time.”

“Listen, listen, listen. It’s the _hair._ Your normal, like, swoopy-floppy style is fine, but the shorter it gets — ”

“I — _hahaha_ — I-I’m sorry, ‘swoopy-floppy’?”

“You know what I mean! The hair you have now!”

“S-Swoopy-floppy! God; the next time I get my hair cut, _that’s_ how I’m gonna describe what I want!”

They’re cracking up too hard for Ethan to drive, so he pulls over in front of a random townhouse until they’ve both caught their breath. Mark stops laughing before Ethan does, so he gets the privilege of watching Ethan’s face light up with mirth for a few blissful seconds. The sound of Ethan’s laughter has been one of Mark’s favorite things ever since he first heard it.

When he can finally speak again, Ethan clears his throat and says, “You’re ridiculous.” Beaming, he glances between Mark’s eyes and his lips before leaning over for a giggly kiss. Mark kisses back as well as he can when his own smile is splitting his face in half, making his cheeks ache.

Ethan keeps his forehead against Mark’s when he breaks the kiss, and their eyes meet. Mark is close enough to see a tiny scratch in the corner of the left lens of Ethan’s glasses, but he forgets that quickly in favor of drowning himself in Ethan’s bottomless eyes.

“We’re almost at the next stop of the tour,” Ethan murmurs. The hand that isn’t still holding Mark’s comes up to trace Mark’s cheekbone, reverent. “We could … pause here for a minute, though.”

Those pink lips and hooded eyes are enticing enough for Mark to actually consider that offer for a couple seconds. But they’re parked on a suburban street in broad daylight — the last thing they need is for some uptight Karen to come banging on the car window, cursing them out and telling them they’re going to hell. Sighing softly, Mark turns his head to kiss Ethan’s palm. “Let’s keep going for now. There seem to be plenty of woods around here — we could always pull over somewhere less conspicuous later.”

Ethan seems conflicted for a few seconds, but he eventually nods in agreement. “You’re right.” With one more indulgent kiss, he leans back and rights himself in the driver’s seat again. Even as his gaze shifts back to the road, a smile lingers on his lips as he pulls the car away from the curb and continues down the street.

About three blocks later, the car crawls to a near-halt and Ethan points at one of the nondescript houses on Mark’s side of the street. “That’s the house I grew up in,” he says, slightly wistful. “I lived there until I was sixteen, then moved in with my dad after the divorce. His place isn’t too far from here.”

Mark nods slowly and takes in every detail of the house — the white siding, the blue shutters, the snow-laden driveway leading back to a two-car garage. He can almost picture a young Ethan riding his bike up and down the sidewalk, racing his brother as their mom sat on the front steps and watched with an amused smile. If seeing Ethan’s high school was intimate, this is on another level.

“And there,” Ethan says after a few seconds, pointing to the smaller yellow house two doors down, “was where my grandparents lived. I’d spend almost every day there after school before my parents got home from work — they basically helped raise me and Andrew.”

“Now that I do remember,” Mark says softly. When he looks back at Ethan, the younger man is staring at the yellow house with a melancholy smile on his lips. It’s only been a year and a half since his grandmother died — it must still hurt to drive down this block. “I met her once, y’know. Your grandmother.”

An unreadable expression replaces the shadow of stale grief warping Ethan’s features. “You did?”

“Yeah. Backstage at our Boston tour date. She asked me all about what it was like living in L.A., about plans I had to work with you in the future, what I thought of your channel … she was so proud of you.”

Ethan lets out a deep breath and nods, shifting his heavy gaze to the dashboard. “I know she was,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a tiny smile.

The moment is interrupted by some asshole in a shiny new Escalade pulling up right behind them and honking, forcing them to get up to the speed limit again. Mark fights down the sudden burning urge to leap out of the car and bash those gaudy headlights in for _daring_ to rush them, today of all days. But he doesn’t get the chance — Ethan shakes himself out of whatever daze had settled over him, and they both watch the two houses disappear in the rear view mirrors as they turn a corner at the next stop sign.

Once his rage has dissipated, Mark loosens the death grip he’d formed on Ethan’s right hand and says, “I know this doesn’t mean what it should to you, but … I’m sorry I didn’t say yes when you asked me to fly to Maine with you for Christmas a couple years ago.”

Ethan frowns slightly. “Why didn’t you?” he asks, more curious than accusatory.

“I was busy,” Mark replies with a helpless shrug. “I’m always fucking busy. I try to take a couple days off around Christmas and New Year’s, but sometimes it just doesn’t happen. Even when my friends are begging me to stop overworking myself.”

Sighing, Mark looks down at their joined hands and tries not to think about the time showing on Ethan’s watch — 3:30 already? “I waste so much time,” he mutters. “I spend so many days every year wrapped up in myself, in my own goals and ambitions that I just … _forget_ to be a good friend. Or any kind of friend. And there’s no excuse for that, no matter how hard I try to find one every time it happens.

“So I’m sorry.” Mark glances up at Ethan’s perfect face, which looks strangely as if it’s about to implode with emotion. He keeps going, though, determined to say this since he’ll probably never get another chance: “I’m sorry I never made more of an effort to get to know things like this about you. I’m sorry I didn’t think visiting your parents and your hometown was important enough to pause my shitty work for, even though you put your channel on hold to visit Cincinnati and go on tour and fly to Austin for ‘Heist.’ This place is beautiful, and it’s so _you,_ and … fuck, I-I’m sorry for ever asking you to leave it for me without knowing that.”

Apologies have never been Mark’s strong suit, but he’s gotten practice with all the ones he’s made in the past ten days. Ethan is still staring straight out the windshield, gripping Mark’s hand tightly, and he’s breathing harshly through his nose like he’s trying to keep from crying yet again. God, the two of them really have been emotional wrecks this whole day, despite resolving to keep the mood positive.

After a long silence, Ethan clears his throat and replies in a quavering voice, “I’d leave all this behind and never come back if it meant I could have you.”

Why that doesn’t count as a love confession, Mark doesn’t know. But it’s somehow exactly what he needs to hear. He lets out a shaky exhale and rubs Ethan’s thumb gently with his own, trying to calm them both down.

“You’ve still got me for eight and a half hours,” he says after a few minutes of dense silence. “And I’m gonna make ‘em count.”

Ethan huffs out a quiet laugh, glancing over at him with a smirk as they turn onto a remote, tree-lined road. “I know one way you can start.”

Some of the earlier mischief has crept back into his voice; it takes Mark far too long to realize what’s happening. He gets it as soon as Ethan turns down one more narrow, unpaved road and pulls over. “Oh my god,” he chuckles when Ethan keeps driving about twenty feet into the snow-covered trees. Hiding away in a dark room in a museum is one thing, but _this_ — there aren’t walls or doors to protect them here. Still, it’s not exactly a turn- _off._ “This is insane. Not saying no, but … ”

“No one hangs around Great Pond in February — dunno if you noticed, but there were no tire tracks in the snow before we got here.” Ethan shifts into PARK, turns off the ignition, and unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’m not sure I wanna, like, get _fully_ naked, but we can at least — ”

He’s cut off by Mark’s lips crashing into his, urgent and adoring. “Get in the back seat,” Mark rumbles, “or climb over here before I lose my goddamn mind.”

Ethan elects to wiggle his way over the center console and into Mark’s lap. Ripping off Mark’s scarf, he crowds in close and replaces the offending fabric with his arms. “Kiss me like we’ll remember it tomorrow,” he breathes, eyes stormy.

When Mark cranes up to obey, he swears he tastes lightning.

* * *

They don’t fuck in the car. Despite the relative seclusion provided by the trees, they both know the chance of someone driving by and coming over to investigate why they’re parked here is too high. So they “settle” for making out for half an hour.

Such an inconvenience.

Without the heat on, the inside of the car cools off pretty fast. But the windows still steam up the longer Mark and Ethan stay tangled together in the reclined passenger’s seat, slowly shedding jackets and hats as the minutes tick on. Mark finds himself in just his t-shirt after about ten minutes, and he makes quick work of Ethan’s light coat and beanie to level the field. Ethan just hums and giggles against Mark’s lips when Mark glides his cold hands under his black turtleneck, fisting his own in Mark’s loose curls. It doesn’t take long for Mark to forget everything besides where Ethan likes to be touched, how tight he should hold him, how hard he can bite down on Ethan’s lower lip before it bleeds and bruises. He never thought he’d do anything like this — park a car in a forest in the middle of winter to kiss for awhile — with _anyone,_ let alone Ethan. For the two of them, though, it’s just ridiculous and bone-headed enough to make sense.

And yet, time marches on. The kiss tapers to a halt after about thirty minutes, but they stay locked together, Ethan straddling Mark’s lap and Mark holding him securely around the waist. They just … talk, after that, about what they’ve already seen and plans for the rest of the day. Ethan even shares a few funny stories from his childhood, including the one about his disastrous first lobstering trip, and Mark wishes he could record Ethan’s storytelling voice to listen to while he’s falling asleep. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt more content than he does with Ethan warm and solid in his lap, chattering softly in his ear. Soaking in every second, Mark closes his eyes and litters Ethan’s neck with slow, gentle kisses just to hear the hitches of breath they cause.

Once an hour has passed, they know they’ve gotta get a move on again — the amulet in Mark’s jacket pocket is practically vibrating with energy, like it’s eager to rip their lives away from them in about seven hours. Since there isn’t much more for Ethan to show Mark in Cape Elizabeth, they both decide to head back to the apartment after the final stop for a home-cooked dinner and a quiet, intimate night together. Mark isn’t sure if he wants to scream or cry at the thought of staring into Ethan’s eyes as everything goes white.

They track down a gas station near the high school to fill up and snag some snacks, and Mark asks, “So what’s this mysterious ‘final destination’ we’re headed for, Mister Tour Guide?” He’s trying desperately to keep his tone light and upbeat, but the existential hopelessness bubbling in the back of his mind is getting harder to ignore by the minute.

“It’s one of my favorite places in the whole state,” Ethan replies as he gets back on the road and points the car towards the coast. “Maybe even the whole Northeast. It’s a lighthouse — and yeah, I know there’s a bunch to choose from out here, but this one’s just. Objectively the best, so.”

Mark laughs around a mouthful of Sour Patch Kids. “Can’t wait to see it, then.” He can’t remember the last time he saw a lighthouse in person.

“The wind’s probably gonna be pretty wicked, but the tide shouldn’t be too high. It’s a lot nicer when it’s warm out.”

“I’m sure it’s great. I can’t wait.” Mark stuffs the candy wrapper in his jeans pocket and takes Ethan’s hand again, not knowing how many more chances he’ll get to do it.

By the time they reach the Portland Head Light, the light snow has stopped and the sun is just about to sink below the horizon. Ethan parks in the empty nearby lot, and he and Mark make their way down the paved (and mysteriously shoveled) path to the imposing lighthouse on the edge of the bay. It stands proudly against the gray-and-white backdrop of the tumultuous winter sea and the cloudy sky, partially obscured behind the keeper’s quarters. It’s an awe-inspiring sight — Mark can’t help but picture what the whole park must look like at sunset in the summer, bustling but serene all at once.

The temperature’s dropped even further, and the wind off the ocean a considerable force as it nips at their flushed faces. But they press on hand-in-hand, taking in the landmark together. By some miracle, they appear to be the only ones here. “How old is this place?” Mark asks as he studies the green-and-white keeper’s quarters with wide eyes. _You just don’t see this stuff in California._

“Uh, 1790s?” Ethan replies after a moment of thought. “Fort Williams played some role in part of the Revolution, I think. Too bad the museum’s closed this time of year — the inside is super cool.”

“So is the outside.” Mark tips his head back and squints to look towards the very top of the lighthouse as they approach. If he thought they would exist tomorrow, he’d be snapping plenty of photos on his phone. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to one.”

“Really? Well, we’ve got plenty to go around up here. There’s four other ones you can see from the fence if you look through those binocular things.”

Mark takes a couple more minutes to gawk at the lighthouse before turning his gaze to the water. The waves are choppier than he expected, but the tide still looks pretty low, lapping at the outcropping of jagged, snow-covered gray rocks surrounding the promontory the lighthouse stands on. As far as Mark can see, there’s nothing but a churning gray sea and the shadows of islands in the distance — if he squints, he can just make out the silhouette of another lighthouse in the middle of the bay. Sighing deeply, he leans against the fence at the edge of the observation point and lets the wind whip against his face. It’s cold, but not bitter.

“Why’s this your favorite one?” he asks Ethan after a minute, breathing in the crisp, salty air. It tastes like something from a dream he can barely remember.

Ethan shrugs and presses closer to Mark’s side, shivering faintly. “I think it’s the prettiest,” he begins, clinging to Mark’s left arm as he gazes out towards the phantasmal islands. “There’s a reason it’s the most photographed lighthouse in the U.S. And I like how you can see so much of the coast from this spot. It’s, like, everything unique and beautiful about Maine condensed into one place — whenever I see a photo of it, it gives me this rush of _home,_ y’know? I think I’d miss this place the most if I ever moved away.”

Nodding slowly, Mark turns and presses a loving kiss into Ethan’s hair. He keeps his frozen nose tucked there for a few long seconds, breathing in Ethan’s scent and soaking in some of his warmth, before a purely impulsive thought pops into his head. Before his brain can stop him, he blurts, “Wanna jump the fence?”

Ethan stiffens against him and pulls back to meet his eyes. “What?”

After a quick scan of the coastline and a double-take over his shoulder to confirm they’re still alone, Mark repeats, “D’you wanna jump the fence? I wanna get closer to the water.”

“You _hate_ the ocean.” Ethan doesn’t object, though. He just sighs, bites back an exasperated grin, and carefully disentangles himself from Mark. “Just promise me you won’t fall in. The rocks are probably icy.”

“We’ll be fine, c’mon.” Mark doesn’t quite know where this sudden urge to get down to the waterline came from, but his brain is locked on the idea now, so there’s no going back. With all the skill of someone who hasn’t done it in more than a decade, he climbs over the chain link fence and lands with a grunt on the other side. There’s still frozen grass beneath the snow under his shoes, so he holds out his arms and encourages Ethan to join him. After a few seconds of internal conflict, Ethan shakes his head in resignation and does just that.

They don’t go too far out onto the rocks for fear of ice and legality, but they end up close enough to the water to feel the frigid spray on their faces every time a wave crashes nearby. Mark finds a decent foothold and holds Ethan steady beside him with an arm around his waist, staring out at the setting sun obscured by clouds.

“Oookay,” Ethan says, wobbling a little as a brief gust of wind knocks him off-balance. He grabs at the front of Mark’s jacket and laughs nervously. “Uh, now what?”

Mark doesn’t know how to answer. Something in him had felt drawn to the edge of the water, but he doesn’t feel the urge to jump in or anything — in fact, the thought terrifies him. He just looks out over the bay and listens to the waves for a minute, taking in every detail as the light slowly drains from the sky. _Your final night begins now,_ the wretched voice in his head grouses.

As if on cue, the amulet in his jacket pocket suddenly feels ten times heavier. He digs around with the hand not gripping Ethan’s hip and pulls the velvet box out, flipping it open and and staring at the halo of dead, blackened stones encircling the large amethyst in the center of the pendant. The box buzzes like a live wire in his palm. With a pang of familiar fear, he sees the final blue stone is already a faded gray; he drags his thumb over it a couple times as though that will restore its color, give him one more day with the love of his life.

 _Fuck you,_ Mark thinks, and his fingers curl tightly around the pendant. All the pent-up despair and confusion and pain from the last ten days morphs into blind rage in the span of a few heartbeats. He feels inconsolably angry at Shelly for making him believe he had a chance at getting home, at himself for making his short-sighted wish, at this _fucking_ necklace that heard the wish and sent him here in the first place. The fury swells behind his ribs like a blister, suffocating, threatening to incinerate him.

It feels like he’s watching himself from a third-person perspective as Mark lets go of Ethan, climbs down the rocks closer to the water, and _hurls_ the amulet in its box towards the ocean as hard as he can with an anguished shout. It careens through the brisk air and lands with an inaudible splash in the crest of a wave, sinking immediately into the anxious sea.

Breathing hard, Mark stares at the spot where the box disappeared into the water and clenches his shaking fists at his sides. He doesn’t feel better, per se, but he feels _free_ — for the first time in ten days, he doesn’t feel the itch of sinister energy pouring off the cursed object.

 _Now you won’t ruin anyone’s life ever again,_ he thinks, even though he knows the amulet will be right back in that display case in L.A. come morning like nothing ever happened. He hopes the next person to be caught in its grasp is smart enough to walk away before letting it mess with their reality.

“Mark!”

Beside him, Ethan sounds panicked. When Mark turns back to look at him, he’s staring open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the ocean in shock, rapid breaths billowing out of him in translucent clouds. “What — What did you do?” he demands, shifting his stunned gaze to Mark. “Wasn’t that — I-I mean, should you have — ?”

“I don’t care,” Mark says simply, and he’s surprised to find he means it. As the last of his rage dissipates, he makes his way back up the rocks to stand in front of Ethan. The younger man is watching him closely, still puzzled, reddened nose scrunched up in confusion. He’s the most perfect thing Mark’s ever seen.

Taking Ethan’s freezing hands in his own, Mark looks him in the eyes and tries to articulate through his earnest gaze everything he can’t put into words. “That thing was just a timer,” he continues. “All it did was remind me how little time I have left with you, and I don’t wanna fucking think about that anymore.”

He’s about to say more, but Ethan twists one of his hands out of Mark’s grasp and shushes him with a finger to his lips. “You’ve given, like, twelve grandiose speeches in the past week,” he says, quirking a bittersweet smile. “Let me try.”

Mark is a little baffled, but he keeps his mouth shut when Ethan takes his hand away. Their fingers tangle together again and Ethan takes a deep breath, glancing down at their snow-soaked shoes as he gathers his thoughts.

The look on his face when he meets Mark’s eyes again is solemn and resigned, but there’s a thin vein of affection woven throughout it that Mark clings to.

“I never thought I’d get to meet you,” Ethan begins, voice so soft the wind almost carries the words away before Mark can hear them. “I’ve admired you for so long and I came so close to being able to tell you that in person years ago, but I guess fate or karma or whatever decided that wasn’t the right time. It’s … comforting to know there’s a universe out there where we’re best friends because I _did_ do that backflip and I _did_ meet you, but … ”

Shaking his head, Ethan shuffles closer to Mark on the slippery rocks and grips his hands tighter. “ … But as great as that universe sounds, I’m never gonna see it. No matter how much I want to. I’ve gotta accept that this is the hand life dealt me in this timeline, and make the most of it however I can. Even … Even if it hurts like hell.

“I-I’ve always thought you were amazing, Mark. You’re an inspiration to millions of people around the world, and I’m so fucking happy to be one of them. But over the past nine days, I’ve also gotten to learn things about you I never thought I’d know. Like … how you like your eggs in the morning. What side of the bed you sleep on. How your voice sounds when you’re first waking up — and how it sounds when you sing in the shower. What you look like right before someone kisses you, and right after. I wish — fuck, I-I wish I could keep those memories with me forever.”

Mark is so, so tired of crying. He’s cried almost every day he’s spent in this timeline, and it’s honestly getting exhausting. But he’s utterly helpless against the urge as Ethan cups his face in one hand and looks at him like no one ever has — like he’s the sun, lighting up Ethan’s world and drawing him into a perpetual orbit they’re both unable to escape.

“You told me earlier that I’ve given you more than you ever hoped to get,” Ethan continues, voice tight from forcing the words past a lump in his throat, no doubt. His smile is like shattered glass, glittering but broken. “W-Well. That goes both ways. I got the best friend I’ve always wanted, the affirmation I needed, and the … the love I thought I’d never get in a million years. And even if I can’t remember it — ”

Ethan’s voice finally cracks, and his smile wobbles. Mark huffs out an unsteady breath and lets go of Ethan’s hand to pull him into a tight hug, pressing as close as he physically can. His eyes squeeze shut against Ethan’s temple, tears leaving icy trails down his cheeks.

“E-Even if I can’t remember it,” Ethan repeats, now speaking right into Mark’s ear with his hands fisted in the back of Mark’s jacket, “it’ll be part of me forever. _You’ll_ be part of me, and I’ll be part of you, a-and nothing can take that away from us. Y-You gave me nine days of happiness and _hundreds_ of days of friendship and laughter and adventure that I don’t even know about and I’m so, _so_ grateful to have known you anywhere at all.”

With the sun finally completing its slow descent below the horizon, Mark pulls back and stares at Ethan’s flushed, tear- and snot-streaked face. In the darkening twilight, he looks like something out of Mark’s sweetest dreams. The light from the tower looming over them casts sweeping shadows over them both as it tirelessly spins, a warning and a comfort all in one. Overcome by the moment, Mark sobs once and chokes out, “I-I’d’ve given you forever if I could.”

“Mark.” Ethan leans in and bumps his cold, runny nose with Mark’s, arms locking themselves around Mark’s neck. “You did.”

The kiss that follows is heartfelt and agonizing and cinematic and eternal. A wave crashes into the rocks just feet from them, lightly spraying them with saltwater, and Mark knows in his soul that he could die at peace if this was his final memory of a life with Ethan in it.

* * *

The temperature’s dropped low enough that black ice has formed on the parking lot pavement by the time Mark and Ethan return to the car. Ethan nearly falls flat on his ass when he slips on an invisible patch, but Mark catches him just in time. “Jesus Christ,” the younger man gasps, gripping Mark’s forearms as he regains his footing. “That could’ve been bad.”

“Should’ve worn better shoes,” Mark teases with a pointed glance at Ethan’s black Vans. “Surprised you didn’t slip and fall into the ocean back there.”

“Alright, Mister Ratty Old Adidas Slip-Ons, I don’t need a lecture from _you_ about winter footwear.”

It’s about a 20-minute drive back to Ethan’s apartment. The first few minutes are silent apart from the faint chatter of the radio as Mark types out a text on his phone — it’s to Amy. She hasn’t contacted Mark once during all this, and from what Mark’s seen she’s been absent from social media since the third. He knows it’s futile, but he can’t not reach out, tonight of all nights.

_It’s the end of day 10. I found him. He likes me, but he doesn’t love me. I tried. It’s okay, though. When you wake up, none of this will have happened and you’ll have your Mark back for good. Just like I promised. Even though you won’t remember all this, I’m still so sorry you had to live through it. You’ll never know how much you mean to me. Thank you for everything. See you in the morning._

With a deep sigh, he hits the send arrow and turns his phone off, knowing she most likely won’t reply. He slips his phone back into his jacket pocket and turns towards Ethan, who has his eyes fixed on the dark two-lane road they’re driving down. Hand-holding is off the table for now — the roads have become slick and icy, so Ethan needs both hands to get them home safely.

“What were you planning on making for dinner?” Mark asks, wanting to fill the silence if only to hear Ethan’s voice for as long as he can.

Ethan shrugs, glancing over at him with an impressively easy smile. “There’s a really great Taco Bell around the corner from my building,” he teases. “How’s a Crunchwrap Supreme sound?”

Rolling his eyes, Mark barks out a half-fake laugh. The nostalgia he feels for the countless Taco Bell lunches he’s eaten with Ethan on Unus Annus filming days is strong, but fleeting. “Ooh, really goin’ all out, I see. You better get me a large Baja Blast with that Crunchwrap.”

“Only the best for The One and Only Markiplier.”

“You know it, baby.”

The radio fills the silence once again, now with a corny pop song about love and taking chances. Mark can barely make out the words, but he’s not really trying — he’s too busy staring at Ethan’s wind-bitten face and admiring his glorious head of slightly matted hat-hair. All he wants is to run his fingers through it, bury his face in it and forget about the leaden weight of the broken heart in his chest.

“I have a question,” he says eventually, head lolled back against the headrest and turned towards Ethan. “It might sound kinda middle school, but it’s serious, I swear.”

Ethan giggles softly and nods his assent. He pulls up to a stop sign at a three-way intersection; tall leaf-bare trees line either side of the road. “Go ahead.”

“If this could last,” Mark says, “and we weren’t doomed, and I asked you … to be my boyfriend.” God, why is this making him blush? “What, uh. What would you say?”

He feels pretty confident of the answer, but something in him needs to hear Ethan say it. Smiling warmly, Ethan takes his eyes off the road to meet Mark’s gaze.

His mouth opens to reply, then snaps shut again as his eyes widen, fixed on something past Mark.

The next three seconds happen in a series of rapid flashes.

Light floods the car — high beams that aren’t theirs — Ethan shouts Mark’s name — Mark turns to look out the passenger window — the sound of rubber skidding on ice and snow and concrete gets louder and louder — a horn blares — the light becomes blinding —

— the pickup truck slams into their car at full speed. There’s glass flying and metal crunching and a cut-off scream and _painPainPAIN_ before everything goes black.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😈 heh. I know.
> 
> Honestly part of me is afraid i jumped the shark a bit but yknow what, i had this plot point in my head from the first day i started writing this fic, so i just decided to go with it. Self-indulgent. 
> 
> Feel free to yell at me and let me know what you think down below!! Don’t worry, chapter ten will come tomorrow. Hang in there!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😈
> 
> Glad to see you all liked the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter, heheh. So sorry about that. Is an early-ish update enough to make up for it?
> 
> This chapter is the shortest of all of them, i think, cuz that’s just how the fic naturally split up when i was sectioning out the chapters. Though it be but little, though, it should pack a mighty punch. PLEASE heed the updated tag warnings — this is the aftermath of a car accident, so there’s naturally going to be things like blood and injuries discussed. I honestly didn’t go into too much detail, but if stuff like that makes you queasy, the second half of the chapter is less graphic than the first, so scroll until you hit the horizontal divider. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I’m not an EMT, but i have been in a car accident pretty similar to this one, so I’m kinda basing my writing off that experience and not off any kind of medical expertise. 
> 
> I’ll shut up now and let chapter ten do the rest of the talking. I hope it’s suitable. :) enjoy!!

Waking up hurts.

Raised voices and cold air and flashing lights overwhelm Mark’s dulled senses. His eyes flicker open, unfocused, then squeeze shut again — it looks like he’s in a car, and there’s something hot and sticky running down his forehead and over his right eyelid. When he tries to raise his right arm to swipe it away, he’s met with a gut-wrenching wave of agony and lets out a near-silent gasp.

_Where the hell am I? What’s going on?_

_Where’s Ethan?_

Mark doesn’t remember much, but he remembers Ethan. Forcing his eyes open again, he slowly turns his head to the left, sensing the younger man beside him. God, his neck hurts; he’s never had whiplash before, but he imagines this is what it feels like. He can’t turn all the way, but in his periphery he sees Ethan’s limp form slouched sideways in the driver’s seat of the car, still belted in. Red and blue lights — cops? paramedics? — illuminate his slack face and the streak of what must be blood running from his temple down his left cheek. Belatedly, Mark realizes Ethan’s glasses are gone, and so are his own.

“E … Eth … ” He can’t even get enough breath to say Ethan’s name.

_What the fuck is going on?_

Mark focuses and thinks as hard as he can for several seconds, thoughts a jumbled mess, before everything comes back to him in a sluggish rush. The wish, the amulet, the kisses, the museum, the lighthouse, the truck —

Shit. This might be bad.

Trying not to panic, Mark turns to look down at his right arm, which is quickly going numb. It’s pinned between his torso and the caved-in car door, immobilized and probably crushed. The sleeve of his gray jacket — at least, the part he can see — is soaked in a dark substance, turning it almost black. He also notices fragments of shattered glass in his lap; the windshield is shattered and both passenger-side windows are gone. The truck that hit them seems to be moving backwards away from their car, dragged by an unseen force. Squinting, Mark makes out the silhouette of a tow truck amidst the fire engine, ambulances, and squad cars assembled around the wreck.

With a soft whine, Mark tries to wiggle the fingers of his right hand. He doesn’t feel them move.

_Fuckfuckfuck, okay, okay, don’t panic. How badly is Ethan hurt?_

Another look confirms that none of Ethan’s limbs appear to be broken, which lets Mark relax just a bit. The car seems to have been pushed into one of the trees on the side of the road, but while the driver’s side doors are caved in and the windows are broken, that impact doesn’t seem nearly as severe as the one from the truck.

Miraculously, Ethan seems to be mostly fine apart from the gash along his hairline. He’s still unconscious, though, which definitely means concussion.

Mark can feel shock settling into his bruised and broken bones, and he knows he could be catatonic soon, given the fogginess of his thoughts and how much blood he’s losing from his arm. He needs to get someone over here _now,_ needs Ethan safe before he can let himself slip into that semi-conscious state. Now that the truck has been dragged away, the shadowy figures of two firefighters and two paramedics come hurrying into view. _Yes. Here. He needs you._

But when Mark opens his mouth and takes a deep breath to call out, a new, searing pain lances through his entire torso, forcing him into silence. All he can do is hack and cough, unable to catch his breath no matter how hard he tries. Every stuttered heave of his chest hurts worse than the one before — it feels different than just a broken rib.

The medics and the firefighters reach the car quickly. A frightening device Mark vaguely recognizes as a Jaws of Life shear sets to work on the car’s right A-pillar, while a kind-faced medic in a coat and dark blue scrubs tries to meet Mark’s half-open eyes.

“Sir, can you hear me?” she asks, speaking over the groaning of metal.

Exhausted by the coughing fit, Mark nods silently and lets his head fall back onto the headrest of the mangled seat he’s still belted to. He tastes metal — did shrapnel get in his mouth?

“Okay. I’m Tanya, I’m here to help you. Can you tell me your name?”

“M-Mark.” His voice is wrecked, and there’s something warm and thick trickling down his chin now. Mark licks his lips and tastes more metal, iron and copper mingling on his tongue. He must have a split lip.

“Nice to meet you, Mark.” Tanya reaches into the car to press two fingers to Mark’s neck, taking his pulse. “Who’s your friend in the seat next to you? Has he shown signs of waking up?”

Swallowing hard and shivering harder, Mark shakes his head as best he can. “Ethan,” he rasps. “Think he … hit his head. Y’gotta help him.”

“He doesn’t look too banged up from what I can see, so that’s good. We’ll get to him very soon,” Tanya assures him. Taking her hand away from Mark’s neck, she produces a small flashlight from somewhere and shines it in Mark’s eyes, flicking it back and forth. “Can you tell me what hurts, Mark? Are you having trouble moving or breathing?”

“Both,” Mark wheezes. He tries to shift in his seat a little but ends up being shocked still by pain, collapsing back with a weak groan. That metallic taste is coating the inside of his mouth now, so it can’t be just a split lip. As dazed as he feels himself becoming, he knows that can only mean one thing. Blinking up at Tanya as she pockets her flashlight, he slurs, “Am I drooling blood?”

He knows the answer before it comes — he can feel it on his lips, clogging the back of his throat. A distant memory from when his mother was a nurse flickers through his mind, and he’s suddenly very aware of how bloated he feels. He knows what this means — the combination of internal and external injuries he’s sustained means he’s in trouble. Like, in danger of dying. _Here,_ in an alternate universe, on the side of a random road in Maine, next to the love of his life who doesn’t love him back.

For all the times he’s wondered how he’ll die, Mark never thought he’d go like this.

But what about the curse? Will he still wake up as jaded, washed-up Mark in the morning if he dies tonight? Or is this more like a, “if-you-die-in-a-dream-you-die-in-real-life” scenario?

Fuck, he’s getting dizzy. What’s going on?

The firemen manage to slice through the last pillar, and the roof of the car lifts up and off. One of them comes back around to the mangled door Mark’s pressed up against, gets a good grip, and yanks until it breaks off. Mark’s crushed right arm is freed and it hangs uselessly at his side, but he can’t feel it anymore. He can’t feel much of anything.

But he doesn’t forget Ethan.

“Y-You’ve gotta help Ethan,” Mark tells the firefighters and medics as they surround the car. If this is like a dream and his death makes this timeline permanent as-is, he _needs_ to know Ethan will make it. Ethan’s the one with talent and potential; Ethan’s the one deserving of a second chance; Ethan is everything good and chaotic about the world and he _has_ to survive.

The coughing returns as three people help unbuckle Mark’s seatbelt and lift him onto a waiting stretcher. He whines and struggles weakly, looking over to where Ethan’s being scooped out of his own seat by a firefighter. The younger man is limp as a rag doll. “Help Ethan first,” Mark wheezes, forcing the words out through the blood filling his mouth. “He hit his head, please — h-help him first.”

“We’re going to do everything we can for you both, Mark,” Tanya says, suddenly appearing back in the line of Mark’s tunneling vision. She carefully lifts his head as one medic gets a neck brace on him and another drapes a thick blanket over his legs. “For now you just need to stay awake for me, okay?”

Someone’s cutting open the shredded right sleeves of his jacket and hoodie, but Mark barely notices. Despite Tanya’s firm but calm instructions to keep his eyes open, he just can’t.

This is poetic, he thinks. From the start of all this, he’s had the lingering thought that he’d rather die than live the rest of his life not knowing Ethan.

_Guess that damn necklace had one more wish left in it._

His lips — stained with blood and the last kiss he and Ethan had shared at the lighthouse — curl up in a barely-there smile as Mark falls headfirst into the dark void waiting for him. There’s no angels, no bright lights, no deceased family members to greet him.

Just … peace.

* * *

_Lights. Voices. Hands. Cold. Smoke._

_The faint memory of a smile, a kiss, a lighthouse._

_Waves of adoration and affection swelling in his chest, crashing against a stubborn barrier preventing them from growing into something more._

_Two headlights, approaching fast._

Ethan snaps awake with a start, eyes flying open. Everything is cold and blurry and distorted, shapes and colors blending together, and holy _fuck,_ his head hurts. Nausea and dizziness wash over him and he has to grit his teeth and close his eyes again to avoid vomiting all over himself.

“Ethan? Can you hear me?”

A voice Ethan doesn’t recognize repeats his name a couple times before he nods, lifting a heavy arm to press a hand to his forehead. It’s wet with something; his hair feels crusty. “What happened?” he asks, voice tight with pain — his left side hurts when he inhales to speak.

“You’ve been in a car accident,” the voice says. “I’m Michelle, I’m an EMT. Can you tell me what day it is?”

Ethan swallows hard and thinks for a few seconds. His head is throbbing so badly it’s making it hard to organize his thoughts. “February … February twelve,” he replies with a soft groan. When he peels his eyes open and turns his head towards Michelle, he realizes he’s laying down on something — probably a stretcher. “My head is killing me,” he whimpers.

“I bet it is. You’ve got a nasty gash on your forehead,” Michelle says as she pulls a small flashlight out of the pocket of her scrubs. She can’t be much older than Ethan, with long brunette hair and a comforting smile that’s only visible because of the flashing blue and red lights everywhere. Ethan’s jealous of her puffy coat, but at least someone’s laid a blanket over him.

Ethan lets her shine the light in his eyes and answers a couple more questions, still feeling sluggish and weird. He kind of remembers the crash, but there’s something else he knows he’s forgetting, something incredibly important.

And then it occurs to him. “How’d you know my name?” he asks Michelle when she starts gently cleaning the wound on his forehead. There’s a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. “I didn’t tell you.”

Michelle smiles at him again, but there’s something off about it this time. “Your friend Mark told us,” she explains. “When we were pulling you out of the car. He must care about you a lot — he kept asking us to help you first.”

_Mark._

The whole day they’d spent together comes rushing back to him — the museum, the café, the woods, the lighthouse. Mark had held him so close, told him the sweetest things, kissed him like he needed it to breathe. And then they’d been hit while driving back from the lighthouse, which means he was with Mark in the car. _Shit shit SHIT, oh god, where is he?_

Ethan’s pulse skyrockets. He opens his mouth to ask Michelle if Mark is okay when a commotion starts up somewhere behind him. Michelle glances up, her expression hardens, and with a brisk order to “stay right there,” she sets down the first aid kit she’d been holding and hurries towards the raised voices. Feeling even more frantic now, Ethan slowly sits up on the stretcher and looks back to see what’s going on.

His glasses are missing, but he can still make out the scene. He sees his wrecked car there, roofless and shoved against the tree line, and the truck is pouring white smoke from its hood a few meters away. Between the two vehicles, there’s a group of about five EMTs surrounding a stretcher, moving quickly and purposefully and shouting technical terms back and forth. The words _collapsed lung_ and _punctured_ and _internal hemorrhaging_ reach his ears, doing nothing to quell his steadily rising panic. When one of the medics steps away from the head of the stretcher to run to the parked ambulance nearby, a head of dark hair is revealed, and Ethan doesn’t need 20/20 vision to know it’s Mark.

_“If this is all I get, I don’t care.”_

_“I belong to you, with you.”_

_“I don’t wanna live without you.”_

_“He kept asking us to help you first.”_

The air rushes out of Ethan’s lungs in one heavy breath. Something in his chest starts aching as he realizes just how far Mark would go for him, what he’d put himself through to ensure Ethan’s safety. The self-sacrificing idiot probably figured that if he let himself die in this universe, he wouldn’t have to wake up back in L.A. to live the rest of his life without Ethan. Ethan isn’t sure if that’s what will happen, but he doesn’t have time to think about it too hard.

“Mark,” he whispers, tossing the blanket off his legs and hopping down off the stretcher. His head throbs, his left side stings with every breath, and another surge of nausea nearly knocks him over, but he has to get to Mark. He’ll collapse and die himself if he doesn’t.

Tears well in his eyes with every staggering step. “Mark!” he cries, holding his side as he struggles to stay upright. He thinks his right ankle is sprained; it can barely take any weight at all, but he presses on. Thankfully, none of the paramedics seem to notice him, but he’d kick and scream and swear if they tried to hold him back. That’s his best friend lying there, his other half, the fucking Annus to his —

Wait.

A sharp, searing pain flares in Ethan’s temples, and he cries out, losing his footing and dropping to his knees on the cold, wet asphalt. Breathing hard, he squeezes his eyes shut, grabs at his own hair and yanks _hard_ as images and sounds fill his mind to bursting. It’s like being hit by another truck, only this time without the protection of metal and airbags around him. For a few seconds, he’s afraid he might pass out.

A life from another universe plays out in Ethan’s head like a movie, far more stark and vivid than the brief memory Ethan had of Mark’s song a couple days ago. He sees Amy, Kathryn, Tyler, Bob, and Wade; he sees his bedroom in his L.A. townhouse; he hears the fucking intro music from the tour; he feels Spencer’s fur between his fingers and Chica nudging his elbow, ever the jealous type.

And he sees Mark. Not Markiplier, his idol and one of the biggest creators on YouTube who showed up on his doorstep and turned his world on its head, but _Mark._

Mark, his irritating but endearing best friend who leaves fast food wrappers and sometimes fingernails on his desk for days on end. The guy he’d backflipped for, twice. The guy who will say yes to a dumb brand deal he doesn’t even want just so he can involve his friends in it and get them a nice check. The guy who’d seen something worthwhile in Ethan and called him out of the blue right before his 20th birthday to offer him his dream job.

The dedicated dog dad, the occasionally depressed pseudo-celebrity, the Annus to his Unus. Mark. _Mark._

Images of Mark smiling, laughing, yelling, eating, sleeping, and crying flash across the backs of Ethan’s tightly-closed eyelids, but they’re not scenes from the past two days. They’re from LAX on Ethan’s first day in Los Angeles, from the warehouse studio they’d filmed so many ridiculous things in, from backstage on the tour, from Mark’s kitchen, his living room, _Ethan’s_ living room. He hears Mark thanking him for being his editor, teasing him for his shitty apple pie, and whispering comforting words as Ethan wept on his shoulder after his breakup with Mika.

More than three years of memories and emotions bleed into Ethan’s consciousness at once, and it leaves him gasping. It’s coming back to him. All of it.

Which means …

Ethan’s eyes fly open and he looks back up at the stretcher Mark’s lying on. The EMT that ran to the ambulance is back, opening a white case that must be a defibrillator. Another medic seems to be doing chest compressions, while another is unraveling a jumble of EKG cables.

_No. You are_ not _leaving me here alone._

So many conflicting emotions are coursing through Ethan — anger, relief, desperation, hopelessness, elation — that it’s hard for him to get back to his feet. It’s like the new memories he’s suddenly storing in his concussed brain are weighing him down, manifesting as invisible millstones chained to his ankles. Somehow, though, they also propel him forward, and he finds himself beside the stretcher a handful of heartbeats later.

“Mark, Mark, oh my god,” he chokes out, wedging himself beside the medic with the defibrillator at the head of the stretcher. He’s still ignored, somehow. He pauses for a few seconds and stares down at Mark in horror, taking in the blood on Mark’s forehead and chin, the paleness of his face, and the horrific state of his right arm. The older man looks so small, barely like himself with the neck brace and the blanket draped over his legs, but Ethan would know him anywhere. This is the man he’s traveled the world with. This is the man who made his dreams come true without even trying.

This is the love of Ethan’s life, and he can’t _believe_ he forgot that for even a second. Why did it take him until now, when Mark is hurt and dying in front of him, to remember it?

Ethan feels bile and guilt rising in his throat, but he swallows hard before leaning down towards Mark’s ear and whispering, “I remember. I-I remember, Mark.”

A gloved hand reaches over and presses a manual resuscitator mask over Mark’s mouth. More hands slice through his hoodie and t-shirt with sharp scissors to expose his bruised and bloodied torso, but Ethan’s eyes are glued to Mark’s lax face. “I remember everything,” he says as his tears overflow and trickle down his cheeks. “It happened. I love you.”

The change happens faster than Ethan thought it would.

Some force in the universe hears Ethan’s words and acts swiftly. Time slows to a stop and everything goes silent, like someone’s just hit pause on the world. The flashing lights go still. Voices hush. Emergency personnel stop in their tracks, frozen in place. It’s eerie, but Ethan barely notices any of it. The only sounds he can hear now are his own sniffling and the deafening, rapid beat of his heart in his ears, and it doesn’t faze him at all. Reaching past the now-static hands of the medics, he cups Mark’s face in his hands and smiles through his sobs.

“I love you,” he repeats, leaning down further to rest his forehead against Mark’s. He stares at those dark eyelashes as his tears fall onto Mark’s pallid cheeks. _Please work, please, please work._ “I love you, Mark.”

In an instant, all the pain and anguish leaves Ethan’s body, and everything starts fading to white. But he isn’t afraid.

After one more breathless “I love you,” Ethan closes his eyes and lets the light swallow him whole.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this kind of another cliffhanger?? Kind of, i suppose. So sorry again. I kept revisiting this part of the fic and wondering if it was too short, if there was any way i could flesh it out more, but the boys are both pretty disoriented after that crash and Ethan’s been right on the cusp of falling in love for days, so i think one more quick nudge was all he needed to let go.
> 
> Does he cease to exist entirely, along with this universe? I’ll leave that up to interpretation. 
> 
> Tomorrow’s chapter will be like 12k, lol. It’ll most likely be posted later in the evening, since I’ll probably be spending most of the day with my family for my bday. It is a doozy, though, so keep those peepers peeled as always!!
> 
> Thank you again for all the love and feedback both here and, more recently, on Tumblr!! I’m not sure how to put links in these notes, but the-inevitability-of-death made a really cool wallpaper based off this fic which you can check out on their blog!
> 
> See you guys tomorrow for the final installment — i really hope it lives up to your expectations.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. At the end. Who knew it would come so soon? 
> 
> I’m home from my birthday festivities earlier than i anticipated, so i thought I’d give myself one last gift by giving all of you a gift: the final chapter. The end of the road. What lies in store for Mork and Eef?? Read on to find out! This monster of a chapter went through so many revisions and chops and additions because i wanted SO BADLY to give the boys the ending they deserve, but also keep it as believable and realistic as possible.
> 
> Because of some last-minute revisions i made throughout the last eleven days as i was posting these chapters, the word count of this fic ended up being over 109K instead of the 108K it was when i posted chapter one. I’m my own beta, i guess, so I think i spent almost as much time editing this fic as i did writing it. BUT you aren’t here to hear about that — you want the content! The conclusion!! The finale!!! And i don’t blame you.
> 
> I’ll save the ending notes for more rambling and just let chapter eleven speak for itself for now. Hope you enjoy :))

_The five of them are walking offstage after the_ final _final show of the You’re Welcome Tour in Perth. Not a single one of them had managed to get through the closing statements and curtain call without breaking down just a little bit, so they’re all snotty and sweaty and looking forward to retreating to the buses to let out their emotions properly. Mark, as always, is the last one to make it backstage after ensuring their photographer gets a round of applause and waving goodbye to the cheering audience one last time._

_The slope of his shoulders and the redness of his eyes make it clear how physically and emotionally exhausted he is. His friends notice right away, greeting him in the rehearsal room with hugs and lovely words of affirmation that only make him start weeping again. He hugs each of them in turn as tight as he can and presses a grateful, lingering kiss to Amy’s lips, ignoring the catcalls that result._

_When the ruckus finally dies down and everyone starts filtering out of the venue to the buses parked out back, only one person stays behind, hugging his knees to his chest on the couch and smiling to himself as tears keep streaming down his face: Ethan. He’s the youngest and newest member of the group, having only started working for and with Mark in late 2016, but he fits in with them like he’s been there the whole time. The chemistry between him and the rest of the team, especially Mark, has delighted fans for over two years now, and it’s no telling what he’ll continue to accomplish in the years ahead with their support behind him._

_Right now, though, he looks conflicted, like he can’t decide whether he should be elated or miserable. Mark takes notice immediately and walks over, crouching down in front of the couch to meet Ethan’s eyes. “You alright, bud?” he murmurs softly, concern etched into his features. He’s never liked seeing Ethan cry._

_Ethan nods emphatically, but his smile wavers. “I-I’m great,” he stammers. “Better than ever. I’ve honestly never been happier than I am right now.”_

_“Then why are you still crying?” It’s not accusatory, just curious. Mark rests a comforting hand on Ethan’s right wrist, encouraging him wordlessly to relax. A few seconds later, Ethan releases his legs and tucks his hands under his thighs. He looks so young like that._

_Shaking his head, Ethan replies, “Because I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like this again.” His watery blue-green gaze flits back up to meet Mark’s, and there’s something like fear swimming in them now. “This has been the best thing I’ve ever gotten to do, Mark. I’ve had so much fun, we all have, a-and I just … what if this is it? The peak, y’know?”_

_He pauses, biting his bottom lip to keep it from wobbling, before finishing with a whispered, “What if I’m never this happy again?”_

_Mark studies Ethan’s slowly-collapsing expression for a couple seconds before climbing up onto the couch beside him without hesitation. “C’mere,” he says, voice like a purr as he wraps an arm around Ethan’s shoulders and pulls him in close. The younger man folds into his side like a paper fan and loops an arm across Mark’s middle, casual as anything. Some of the bits they’d had to do onstage for this tour had forced them to get more physically comfortable with each other, and those months of conditioning pay off in this moment of comfort and stillness._

_“I kept thinking that too, y’know,” Mark admits after a minute of rubbing Ethan’s back and letting him cry silently into his shoulder. “Every night, I’d look out at all the smiling faces and hear my closest friends laughing with me and think, ‘How could it possibly get better than this?’ You know me; you know I’m always looking for the next big thing I can do to prove myself to the world. But honestly, I … I don’t know if anything will ever top this. At least for me.”_

_“If you’re tryin’ to make me feel better, it’s not working,” Ethan grouses, but he doesn’t pull away from the embrace._

_“I’m getting to the feel-good part, just be patient!” Mark giggles into Ethan’s hair and Ethan manages a quiet laugh in return, muffled by Mark’s shoulder. When they’ve quieted down, Mark continues. “Listen, it’s easy to fall into the mindset of ‘I’ll never be this happy again, so what’s the point.’ But — as fuckin’ corny and cliché as this sounds — you’ve gotta think of this as a beginning, instead of an ending.”_

_Looking down at the head of soft chestnut-brown hair against his shoulder, Mark smiles as genuinely as he ever has. “Ethan, you’ve only_ just _started scratching the surface of your potential — your potential to create, to inspire, to excel at what you’re passionate about. It’s been a privilege to get to see you grow and improve up close. I guarantee you, this is not the end of the road for you. What you felt out there every night onstage — the camaraderie, the happiness, the manic energy — was just a_ taste _of what’s in store for you. And I can’t wait to see how far you go.”_

_Ethan isn’t crying anymore, but he looks like he wants to be. He beams up at Mark like he’s discovered a new constellation, holding his gaze for a few seconds before ducking back down against his shoulder and hugging him tight. “Thank you,” he says, earnest and heartfelt. All Mark can do is hug him back, closing his own eyes as fresh tears threaten behind them._

_When they finally separate a minute later, they’re both drying their eyes with the backs of their hands and blushing bashfully. Ethan is the first to fully compose himself, and he asks while he watches Mark comb his fingers through his dark curls, “Did you ever think in a million years that my fucking backflip at PAX would turn out like this?”_

_Mark barks out a laugh and shakes his head, still sniffling a bit. “Absolutely not. But I’ll never not be glad that it did.”_

_His eyes flit back to Ethan’s, their gazes lock, and something electric passes between them, clinging to every particle of air they breathe. Ethan licks his chapped lips, smile softening. Mark’s eyes follow the motion. “Where would I be,” Ethan murmurs, “without you?”_

_The words are dripping with fondness and something else unnameable. Mark shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but tense. “The same place I’d be without you, probably,” he replies, voice hushed as though his words are a precious secret. “Wanting more without knowing what ‘more’ was.”_

_“Sounds about right.”_

_They stay there on that couch, less than a foot apart, staring wordlessly at each other until they hear a knock on the doorframe across the room. “Yo, Team Purple,” Bob teases with a friendly smirk, poking his head around the corner. “If you wanna spend the night in a hotel instead of on your bus, you’d better get a move on.”_

_Whatever spell had taken over the room dissipates in an instant as Mark and Ethan jump up off the couch in unison. “Coming, we’re coming — ”_

_“He was upset, I was just — ”_

_“ — making sure I was okay; we’re ready to leave.”_

_“Alright, alright.” Bob’s gaze flicks back and forth between the two of them for a couple seconds before he shrugs and walks out of view, back down the hallway towards the rear exit of the venue._

_Once they’ve gathered up their phone chargers and backpacks, Mark and Ethan make their way out of the rehearsal room and close the door behind them. As they’re walking down the hallway, Mark half-tackles Ethan in a backwards hug and presses a sloppy kiss to his temple. “Love you, ya big idiot,” he mutters with a goofy grin Ethan can’t even see._

_The younger man giggles — a light, sweet, ever-uplifting sound — and tries to squirm out of Mark’s strong arms. He doesn’t struggle as fiercely as he could, though. “Love you too, asshole,” he chuckles. “Now let go of me, you reek!”_

_Mark releases Ethan from the embrace but keeps a hand on his shoulder, a silent reassurance that this is all real. The question of where he’d be without Ethan fades from his mind, and he doesn’t even notice. It’s just as well — he doesn’t want to know the answer anyway._

* * *

Mark’s no stranger to nightmares. His family knows about it, his girlfriends have all had to deal with it. It’s not uncommon for Mark to startle awake in the middle of a scream, or with tears of petrified fear rolling down his cheeks even though he can’t remember what he’s so scared of. Sleep paralysis is another one of his foibles, but it isn’t quite as frequent — unless he’s especially stressed. In those instances, he may have an “episode” up to three times in a week. When he manages to rouse himself from a bout, he usually comes to panting like he’s just run five miles.

All this is to say Mark’s experienced many unpleasant ways to wake up. But he’s never awoken feeling like he’s been holding his breath for ten minutes.

Until now.

The first thing he feels is Chica licking his hand — something she does when she can tell he’s in the throes of a bad dream. The second thing is a burning, piercing pain in his lungs, and he immediately gulps down a noisy, panicked breath as he bolts up into a sitting position. There’s black spots clouding his vision and his right arm aches like he’d slept on it wrong, but he ignores those things in favor of coughing to clear his throat and sucking in deep, measured breaths. It feels like he’s been underwater for too long, the weight of water crushing his ribs and forcing every molecule of oxygen out of him. Squeezing his eyes shut against the mild vertigo he’s experiencing, Mark flexes the fingers of his right hand to work out the weird cramping and presses his left to his heaving chest, over his pounding heart.

It takes a good three minutes for Mark to regulate his breathing enough that he can open his eyes again without dizziness. His mind is blank for a few seconds as he takes in the familiar sights of his bedroom: the white bedsheets, the dresser and wall-mounted TV across from the bed, the exposed cedar beams of the slanted ceiling above him. There’s dirty laundry overflowing in the hamper by his closet and a few random ring lights and tripods shoved in the far corners, where he’d left them after filming for Unus Annus last week.

Chica jumps up onto the bed and lays down across his outstretched legs. Her fur is painted gold in the morning sunlight pouring over the bed, filtered through the curtains drawn over the floor-to-ceiling windows in the east wall. She looks up at Mark and tilts her head to the side inquisitively, sensing his momentary confusion.

_I’m back._

The realization leaves Mark gasping for breath again. He’s _home —_ back in L.A., back in the house he knows, back in _his timeline._ With clumsy, shaking hands, he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand beside the bed and turns it on to check the date. It’s 7:13 a.m. on Sunday, February 2nd. The day of the fight that led to the wish that led to …

_Was it all a dream?_

No. It had been too real, too visceral to be a dream. Mark can remember every emotion he’d felt in that timeline, good and bad. He can see Ethan seeing him in person for the first time in that dimly-lit atrium. He can feel and _smell_ the warm bed he’d shared with Ethan for four nights. Every kiss and touch is burned into his mind like a brand, and he’s sure it’s permanent. There’s no way he just … imagined it all in one night.

Eyes wide and heart in his throat, Mark unlocks his phone and opens his messages. There, near the top of his recents list, is “Ethan Crankypants.”

Mark bursts into tears.

He drops his phone onto his lap, covers his face with his hands, and weeps as relief crashes over him like a tsunami. Ever the attentive pup, Chica jumps up onto the bed and nudges Mark’s wrist with her wet nose, concerned. She’s immediately scooped into a loose hug as Mark wraps his arms around her neck and buries his face in her fur, giddy laugher making its way through his sobs.

“I did it,” he chokes out. Holy shit, saying it out loud makes it all the more real. “Chica, oh my god, I-I did it. I’m home.”

But how? The last thing Mark remembers is the car accident. He vaguely recalls waking up to mind-numbing pain and talking to an EMT with a kind voice. There had been bright lights, brisk winter air, and sheer panic at the sight of Ethan in the driver’s seat, limp and unresponsive. And then … nothing but darkness. _Did I die?_ He isn’t sure, but Ethan must’ve been alright to have fallen in love with Mark and reset everything in the nick of time. Mark thinks he can remember Ethan’s voice calling his name and whispering in his ear, but it’s a much foggier recollection than the others. Still, there’s no other way to explain how he’s sitting here right now.

That means there’s at least one universe where Ethan’s really, genuinely _in love with him._ Holy fuck. That thought brings with it a mangled jumble of others, each one more frazzled and unbelievable than the last, so Mark has to force himself to stop thinking about it to keep his brain from leaking out his ears.

In the back of his mind, he hopes that universe didn’t just blip out of existence. He hopes other-Amy and other-Mark were reunited. And even though it pains him to think about, Mark hopes Ethan finds fulfillment and happiness with someone.

After crying himself out for a few minutes and pressing countless grateful kisses to the top of Chica’s head, Mark scrambles out of bed to the master bathroom. When he flicks on the light and steps in front of the mirror, he’s greeted by a reflection he hasn’t seen in ten days: himself, well-built and sturdy, with the right haircut and a couple days’ worth of stubble sprouting from his cheeks and jaw. There’s no scars or injuries anywhere that would indicate he nearly died in a car wreck hours(?) ago; his right arm is perfectly unscathed. He’s even wearing his dumb bananas-and-cherries boxers. They almost make him cry again.

As much as he wants to play with Chica and wander around his house taking in every detail like it’s his first time seeing it, Mark knows his main priority: getting to Ethan. He fills Chica’s food and water bowls and lets her out in the backyard, then looks up the flight Ethan had been on this morning while he brushes his teeth and pops his contacts in. It was a red-eye, that much Mark knows, and the only flight to land at LAX from Portland so far today touched down just after 5:30 a.m. After everything he’s been through in the past ten days — well, in the _future,_ technically, even though it’s _his_ past; god, he’s gonna give himself a migraine if he thinks too hard about that — Mark’s surprised he remembers any details of this day. Most of what’s burned into his mind is the fight, which _hasn’t happened_ and never will if Mark has any say in it.

The YouTube app is his next stop, and he hesitates before opening it. The psychological trauma of seeing years of his best creations completely wiped out of existence sticks like a thorn in his frazzled mind, and he can’t help but fear he’ll find the same here. But when he navigates to his channel and sees his banner image advertising “Heist,” that trepidation drains from Mark’s body in an instant. He’s back at 25 million, back at the top of his game, and he resolves in that moment to never let himself lose sight of what he could be.

A week off might be in order after the crazy ride he’s been on, though.

Fuck, wait, that reminds him. He’d had to _record_ today, too. At that horrific metaphysical shop. That has to be cancelled immediately — Mark isn’t ever setting foot in that shop again, and he’d rather be in another car wreck than let Ethan anywhere near it, either. He needs to try calling Ethan, needs to hear his voice, but that appointment needs to be dealt with first.

Once Chica’s finished in the yard and Mark’s changed into a random Cloak tee and some black joggers, he looks up the shop on Google to find the phone number. He’s calmed down a bit since waking up, mostly anxious about seeing Ethan as soon as possible, but his stomach twists painfully as he listens to the phone ring twice, three times, four times —

Voicemail. The shop must not be open yet. Shelly’s airy, pre-recorded voice sends icy shivers up Mark’s spine as it instructs Mark to leave a message.

“H-Hi. It’s me, uh, Mark. From last week. And … today? Yesterday? Fuck, whatever.” He’s pacing back and forth across his living room, Chica watching idly from her bed in the corner by the TV. “Uh. You said you can, like, see every reality or something, right? Then you should know who I am, and that … it worked. I-I’m back. Ethan … loved me, for at least a second, and now I’m back. The fight we had — we’re _supposed_ to have today, I guess — hasn’t happened yet, and I need to do whatever I can to avoid it. I also need to avoid ever seeing that _fucking_ amulet ever again, so … we’re not gonna come film at your shop today. Or ever. But you probably already guessed that.”

Mark runs his free hand through his hair agitatedly and plops down on the couch with a deep sigh. “I guess I owe you a thank-you, in some weird way,” he mutters. “You gave me guidance, and I would’ve been lost without it. So. Thanks. I … I’ve gotta go see Ethan now. Just wanted to let you know we won’t be coming by. Um. Have a nice — ”

The machine cuts him off with another shrill beep, but Mark is satisfied with what he managed to say. Once he ends the call, he sends a hasty text to Amy and Evan:

_Hi guys. Everything’s fine, but I’ve gotta help Ethan out with some stuff today, so we won’t be recording today. I already called and cancelled. Take the day off, you’ve earned it, and see ya in a couple days._

He gets two affirmative replies in the group chat, and then a separate one from Amy: **_you sure everything’s fine?_**

Mark stares at the text for a good minute, chewing his bottom lip as he debates how to respond. It’s Amy, though — she deserves as much of the truth as Mark has the energy to divulge right now. One day he’ll tell her everything, but for now, a quick mostly-truth will suffice.

 _I hope it will be. Kinda woke up needing to finally tell Eth I love him, so we’ll probably be busy for the rest of the day._ Then, after a pause, _NOT THAT KIND OF BUSY, just talking about stuff_

Amy replies within ten seconds: **_GO GET THAT BOY. everyone’s waited long enough, especially him!_**

_I will never be worthy of having you in my life, I hope you know that._

**_hush. <3 now call him dummy._ **

In every universe, she really is too good to him. Mark will never know what he did to deserve her.

The next text he sends is to Ethan. When he opens the message thread, he sees the younger man texted him right after 6, almost two hours ago: **_hey man just got in an uber and heading home from the airport. gonna nap cuz i’m ssssooooo sleepy but i’ll be ready at the witchy shop at ten! see ya then._** Mark remembers reading it before, in the first version of today. He’d left Ethan on read that time.

Shaking off the strange déjà vu, Mark types out a response with shaking fingers.

_Hey, just saw this. Glad the flight went ok. You awake?_

Heart in his throat, he stares unblinking at his phone screen for a solid two minutes. His leg starts to bounce anxiously as he sends a follow-up: _Nothing’s wrong but I need to see you. Can I come over?_

Still nothing a couple minutes later. _Fuck._ Ethan must be dead asleep. Mark can just picture him curled up in bed, eyes closed and lips gently parted, tousled brown hair a mess on the pillowcase … the image alone is enough to spur Mark into standing up and hunting down his car keys. He tries calling Ethan over and over while he slips his shoes on and looks for a jacket, but he just keeps getting Ethan’s voicemail. It’s the generic one that comes pre-programmed with the phone, not a personalized one, so Mark doesn’t even get a snippet of Ethan’s voice to listen to and calm himself down. He feels like he’s on speed or something, his pulse racing as fast as his thoughts even as he kisses Chica goodbye.

 _If he’s pissed I showed up without warning him, at least I’ll have proof that I tried,_ Mark thinks after the fifth failed call. It’s hard to believe he hasn’t been awake for an hour yet and he’s already buckling himself into the Tesla and backing out of his garage. He’s done the bare minimum he needed to do: take care of Chica and let his colleagues know he’ll be unavailable for the day. He’s not gonna get any writing or recording done, and he might miss a meeting he’s forgotten about, but he doesn’t give a shit right now. All he needs is Ethan.

* * *

The drive to Ethan’s townhouse gives Mark plenty of time to have an existential crisis or two. He’s reminded of the first drive from his hotel to Ethan’s apartment in Portland, how uncertain and afraid and lost he’d felt. There’d been no guarantee Ethan wouldn’t slam the door in his face, and that same possibility remains here. Despite their dynamic and Ethan’s frequent on-camera flirting, Mark simply doesn’t know how Ethan will react to all this. Once again, Mark’s been put in the position of trying to get Ethan to believe a wacky, completely unbelievable story. At least this time, he has almost four years of mutual trust to back him up.

And he has an agreement to uphold. _“You have to promise me if you get back there, you’ll go for it. Tell me how you feel,”_ Ethan had instructed, curled up in Mark’s arms on that worn couch after their frantic first time against his fridge. Mark blushes scarlet at the thought of everything they’d done together — the body he’s in now may not have had those experiences, but his mind sure has, and it’s not about to forget them anytime soon. As far as Mark knows, Ethan hasn’t had any sexual encounters with guys in this timeline apart from jokey kisses at parties. Eric was never a thing here, so there’s no telling what level of confidence Ethan will have when they —

Jesus Christ. Mark’s getting way too far ahead of himself. There’s absolutely no way to know how Ethan will react to Mark’s confession, especially when it’s preempted by the nutso fairy tale Mark’s going to tell. _And,_ this is an entirely different Ethan he’s confessing to this time — one who doesn’t look at him with that idol-worship awe anymore; one who has a much larger online audience and influence; one who has a lot more to gain and lose from having a relationship with someone like Mark, public or not.

For a brief moment, Mark feels a pang of loss for the Ethan he’d left behind. They’d had a completely different relationship, but he’d still cared for and about Mark so perfectly. Hopefully he’s still out there in some universe somewhere, making content he’s proud of and proving everyone wrong with his success. Even if he has to do it without Mark by his side. Mark truly has no idea what he’ll do if he never gets to taste Ethan’s lips again, or wake up in his arms — it’s a hollow, terrifying thought.

But at least he’ll have Ethan back. That’s all Mark really gives a shit about. He’ll spend the rest of his life single and alone if it means he gets to keep Ethan as a friend. Knowing what they could become without each other … it’s enough to make Mark want to envelop Ethan in the tightest hug possible and never let go again.

To do that, though, he has to get to Ethan first. Every red light feel like it lasts _hours_ and stop signs seem to have a personal vendetta against him, sprouting up inconveniently like weeds at every residential intersection. This commute that should take 20 minutes tops ends up lasting half an hour, even with Mark speeding ten over the limit consistently and stretching every traffic law he can. _Goddamn morning L.A. traffic._

Every frenzied thought in Mark’s head goes suddenly still when he finally pulls into Ethan’s driveway. The Mini and Ethan’s new Tesla must be in the garage, but it’s like Mark can _sense_ them. This doesn’t feel like a stranger’s home, as it had when he’d driven past the other version of it. Gnawing on his bottom lip, Mark pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket and tries calling Ethan one more time. Voicemail again — the guy must really be jet-lagged.

Mark doesn’t feel his feet touch the ground once while he walks up to Ethan’s front door. Every inch of his skin is tingling with anticipation and fear, but his mind is focused and strangely calm. He’s been back in the right timeline for over an hour by now, but none of this feels fully real yet.

The little plastic doorbell stares at him with invisible yet piercing eyes. _Go on, ring me,_ it mocks. _See who comes to the door. You sure it’ll be who you expect?_

Mark blows out a harsh breath and presses it before he can convince himself not to.

He hears it echo hauntingly through the house, followed by brief, distant barking. _Spencer,_ he thinks, the first thrill of happiness trickling into his heart. Footsteps approach from inside, and the door unlatches and opens.

It’s Kathryn, clad in her usual sweater and glasses and looking up at Mark with a puzzled expression. Even seeing her makes Mark choke up with emotion, and she must see something in his expression fracture. “Mark?” she asks, concerned. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Mark blurts, clearing his throat. He looks past her into the living room, scanning and listening for any signs of Ethan coming down the stairs. “I-I just, uh. Is Ethan here?”

“Yeah, he’s still asleep. Come inside, you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.” Kathryn steps aside so Mark can enter and closes the door behind him. “I thought you guys weren’t supposed to go film until ten?”

Mark is momentarily overwhelmed by the achingly familiar smell of the townhouse, so it takes him a second to respond. “Uh, I actually — that got called off,” he says as he takes in the dog toys scattered over the floor, the movie posters on the walls. It’s all _exactly_ how it should be, and a couple pieces of his shredded heart knit themselves back together. “Do you think you could go get him? I-I gotta talk to him.”

Kathryn studies Mark closely for a few long seconds, but he only sees her in his periphery. “Okay,” she says slowly, “but only because you’re acting like you’ll collapse on the fuckin’ floor if I don’t.” She steps closer to him and rests a careful hand on his arm, ignoring his flinch when he turns to meet her eyes finally. “Seriously, dude, are you okay?”

Nodding hastily, Mark forces himself to smile as genuinely as he can. “I’m fine, I promise,” he insists. “I just … Actually, can I go upstairs? To talk to him? Nothing’s wrong, I swear, but I — ”

“Mark, _calm down.”_ Kathryn silences him with a gentle squeeze of his forearm, like she’s soothing a spooked animal. “Yes, you can go talk to him, just don’t run up the stairs and break your neck. Are you sure everything’s alright?”

 _“Yes,_ I’m sure.” Mark kicks off his shoes and bounces on the balls of his socked feet, staring at the staircase across the room. _So close._ “Just here to help him with some editing.”

“Oh.” Skepticism is a look Mark has seen on Kathryn’s face and something he’s heard in her voice so many times, so he recognizes it instantly. “Well. Not sure how happy he’ll be that you’re waking him up early to edit a video, but it’s your funeral. I’ve got my own project I’m working on, so I’ll stay out of your hair.”

“Fine, that’s fine, that’s good.” Mark starts walking across the living room, already feeling like he’s been dropped into the middle of a dream. “Have fun. You’ll do great.”

Kathryn’s uncertain “Thank you?” is the last thing Mark hears before he jogs up the stairs.

The air feels somehow different up here, thick and tense, like an inaudible drumroll. Mark walks towards Ethan’s closed bedroom door like he’s walking on broken glass — _video idea,_ his traitorous brain supplies — and pushes it open slowly. He knows what he’ll find behind it, but for some reason, he just can’t believe it yet.

Not until he sees recognition in Ethan’s eyes.

Mark hasn’t been in this room many times, but he’s seen it enough in Ethan’s Instagram stories to know it by sight. More framed posters cover the mustard-yellow walls, and the shelves against one wall are full of convention lanyards, gymnastics trophies and medals, and random collectibles Ethan is known to buy indiscriminately. Spencer is lying in his crate near the door, and his fluffy head pops up from his crossed paws when it opens with a soft creak. He quirks his ears and looks at Mark curiously as if to ask, _What are you doing here? My dad’s asleep!_ He’s tiny and adorable and exactly how Mark remembers him. Shit, there’s that lump in his throat again.

Speaking of lumps, there’s a large one nestled under the blankets on Ethan’s (queen-sized, thank god) bed.

To be honest, Mark expected his reunion with Ethan — if he ever got one — to be more dramatic. He’d imagined white doves everywhere and harps playing as Ethan greeted him at the front door, wearing nothing but his boxers low on his hips and a towel draped over his bare shoulders. There would be no judgment as Mark collapsed in Ethan’s lithe arms, sobbing and apologizing, only to be silenced with a passionate kiss as the choir hit a crescendo and golden light poured down from the sky to bless their union for all time. The neighbors would applaud, the mayor would hand them the key to the city, and they’d spend the rest of the day tangled up in sweaty sheets making every angel in heaven blush.

Instead, it goes like this.

Mark slowly walks over, reveling in the scent of Ethan’s mild cologne and shower soap, and sits on the edge of the bed near Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan is lying on his stomach beneath the comforter, arms shoved under the pillow his face is buried in. Mark can’t name every emotion he experiences as he takes a minute to stare at the line of Ethan’s jaw, trace the slope of his nose with his eyes like it’s his first time seeing it. Those slightly parted lips, those long eyelashes, that wild brown bed head — Mark could spend the rest of the day just looking at Ethan and not get bored. He’s so, so fucking in love and he prays to whatever deity is listening that he won’t have to go back to suppressing it after today.

Slowly, like he’s about to handle delicate lace, he reaches out and touches Ethan’s feather-soft hair. He’s almost afraid to disturb the image before him, half-expecting it to ripple and fragment apart like a reflection on water. When that doesn’t happen, Mark gently cards his fingers through Ethan’s hair, combing it back away from his forehead and smoothing down an eyebrow with his thumb. The solidity, the _realness_ of Ethan sleeping here in front of him makes Mark’s ribs ache with adoration and sheer, agonizing relief.

Mark’s perfectly content to keep petting Ethan forever, but the rhythmic touches eventually wake him. Nose wrinkling like an irritated kitten’s, Ethan snuffles into the pillow and blinks his eyes open. Mark fights the instinct to snatch his hand away, instead letting it rest between Ethan’s shoulder blades as those ethereal turquoise eyes flit up to meet his.

“Mark?” Ethan’s voice is muzzy and a little garbled with sleep. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, clearly trying to save face in front of his best friend as he rubs at his eyes with one hand. The shirt he’s wearing is an original Cloak release, soft grey camo, and it only makes Mark’s chest tighten further.

 _I found you,_ his heart whisper-cries. _I finally found you._

“Hey,” he replies. What else can he say? His mind is a disbelieving void focused only on how Ethan’s mouth forms around his name.

“Hey … ” Confusion replaces the drowsy haze over Ethan’s expression, sharpening his gaze just a bit. “What’re you doing here? Shit, I didn’t sleep through the shoot, did I?”

Mark shakes his head adamantly, but his eyes never stray from Ethan’s pink, pillow-creased face. “No, no, it’s not even nine yet,” he says, hand drifting to Ethan’s warm shoulder. God, he’s emitting heat like a furnace, so warm and real and _alive._ “Kathryn let me in. I’m sorry, I know you’re tired, I just had to see you.”

The lines of befuddlement between Ethan’s eyebrows deepen slightly. Mark’s not usually the type to show up at a friend’s house unannounced, or without some clear purpose in mind. “I had to see you” isn’t a reason he’s ever given for visiting someone other than his mom, so it makes sense that Ethan would balk at first.

“Why, what’s going on?” Ethan asks solemnly. Over the course of a couple seconds, his expression changes from puzzled, to afraid, to deeply concerned. Seemingly fully awake now, he pushes himself up into a sitting position facing Mark and leans a little closer to him. “Mark, what happened?”

His tone is so genuine it briefly distracts Mark from the gravity of this moment. “What do you mean?”

Biting his lip, Ethan reaches out with a tentative hand and touches Mark’s cheek. The surreal spark Mark feels at the moment of contact goes unmentioned when Ethan’s fingertips come away wet. _Oh._ So that’s why Mark’s vision has gone a little blurry. He finally feels the stuffiness in his nose and the burning in his lungs as he lets out staggered breaths — must be his body’s natural reaction to finally being near Ethan again in the right context.

“Please talk to me, Mark, you’re scaring me.” Ethan rests a hand on Mark’s forearm, burning through the jacket sleeve in an instant. “What’s wrong? Is it — Is it your mom? Is it Chica?”

The care and tenderness in those eyes is Mark’s final undoing. Letting out a half-laugh, half-sob, he shakes his head and offers a watery smile. “It’s you,” he whispers.

Everything’s simultaneously crashing down and being rebuilt all around Mark, and he can’t hold back from wrapping Ethan in a tight, urgent hug. Even though Ethan goes stiff for a split second — Mark is almost never the one to initiate hugs — he quickly adapts, holding Mark just as snugly in his strong arms. The instant those arms lock in place around his middle, Mark feels the universe exhale and he buries his face in the crook of Ethan’s neck.

He’s really home.

“I missed you,” he hisses, tears dampening the light stubble dusting Ethan’s jaw. He knows how Ethan will take it in this context, but Mark means it more than he’ll ever understand. “Fuck, I missed you so much.”

Ethan makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat and tightens the embrace. “I’m here,” he says, and Mark’s done for.

Something inside Mark shakes apart only to be reassembled piece-by-piece as he weeps in Ethan’s arms. His shaking fists are clenched so tightly in Ethan’s shirt he’s distantly afraid he’ll rip it, but Ethan doesn’t tell him to let up. All he does is hold Mark as close as possible and whisper mindless reassurances into his hair, adjusting his position slightly to accommodate for the awkward angle. His arms are toned and just a little beefed up and his back and chest are lean and sturdy, the results of a month with a personal trainer. This is how hugging Ethan is supposed to feel: solid and warm, like falling onto a memory foam mattress and being covered in a gravity blanket. His heart is pounding where it’s pressed against Mark’s chest, still anxious, but Mark is incapable of speaking to alleviate his worry.

By the time Mark’s sobs morph into hiccups, the collar and left shoulder of Ethan’s shirt are soaked in tears. Mark haltingly pulls away but keeps one hand on Ethan’s side, fisted in the soft fabric, while the other swipes at his leaky eyes. “Agh, I-I’m sorry,” he chokes out, but it isn’t in despair. This is the first time in ten days he’s wept out of joy instead of guilt, hopelessness, or heartbreak.

“It’s okay,” Ethan assures him. The hand that doesn’t have a grounding grip on Mark’s forearm reaches over to the nightstand and swipes a few tissues from the box there. Ethan hands them to Mark and watches closely as Mark wipes the saline and snot off his flushed face. “Are you — was that really just because you missed me while I was out east?”

That’s a pretty good excuse, and Mark considers using it for a couple seconds. But he’s so exhausted from making up stories and excuses for how he feels that he can’t bring himself to nod. Instead, he shrugs and hesitantly meets Ethan’s searching gaze again. “Part of it, maybe,” he replies with a noisy sniffle. “I-I’ll tell you the rest soon, I promise. There’s something we’ve gotta take care of first, though.”

Ethan’s face takes on a new shade of confusion. “What?”

“The video for today.” Mark tries his best not to look or sound smug even as he keeps blotting his puffy eyes and runny nose. “You haven’t finished editing it yet, have you?”

A blink, a horrified gasp, and a muttered “Oh, shit!” is the only response Mark gets. Realization dawning, Ethan finally pulls away from Mark completely and leaps out of bed, nearly tripping over a curious Spencer as he scrambles out of his room. Mark stands and follows him calmly, smiling to himself while Ethan shouts fervent apologies and thunders down the stairs. _That’s definitely Ethan._ He doesn’t even care that he’ll have to wait a few hours to fill his arms with the younger man again.

* * *

Those next few hours pass by in a blur. The video they have to put together is a weird one: Mark had agreed to let Ethan turn him into an “e-boy,” whatever that is, mostly because he could simultaneously film a sponsored video for Dollar Shave Club. Ethan takes on the brunt of the video since he’s already got a head start, and Mark offers to work on the footage that’s meant to be a stereotypical TikTok. The cinematic footage of himself dancing to inaudible music, making unflattering faces, and biting into an unpeeled orange doesn’t even faze him. He just hooks up a spare keyboard and mouse to Ethan’s second monitor, hunkers down at the end of Ethan’s desk, and activates his editing autopilot.

They don’t speak much as they work, but Mark does get up once or twice to use the bathroom and grab some drinks for them. He brews Ethan a cup of coffee and sets the mug beside his mousepad, fighting the instinct to lean down and kiss the crown of Ethan’s head. That’s one thing he’s already finding difficult — not being able to touch Ethan like he wants to. If this were the other timeline, he’d have his feet hooked with Ethan’s under the desk, his chair pushed up close to Ethan’s so their shoulders could brush. It’s a strange feeling, this nostalgia for a place he’d once been so desperate to escape.

Still. Though Mark can’t touch, he can certainly look. Ethan is effortlessly attractive, especially here, doing the job he loves with unerring skill. Mark watches him as stealthily as he can, peeking around the side of his own monitor to take in those focused eyes, those deft fingers clicking and typing away. Ethan has a habit of chewing his bottom lip when he’s working or deep in thought, and Mark’s silent gaze tracks the movement. He briefly wonders if he’ll ever taste those lips again. They’d been so soft but so naughty, kissing every one of Mark’s most sensitive places and leaving hickeys and goosebumps in their wake.

A traitorous stirring occurs in Mark’s sweats and he has to look away. _Getting ahead of yourself again. Don’t do that._

It takes about two and a half hours for them to finish their respective segments of the video. Once the two parts are looked over and spliced together, Ethan exports the file, and Mark does the upload, title, and description. It’s scheduled for noon, about 20 minutes from now, and both boys finally relax.

“God,” Ethan breathes as he collapses on the couch near his desk. “I can’t believe I forgot about that. I’m really, really sorry. We would’ve been fucked.”

Mark nods. “Yeah, we would’ve. But it’s alright.” He settles on the couch beside Ethan, putting a careful two feet of space between them, and waits for the penny to drop.

It doesn’t take long. “Wait.” Ethan takes his hands away from his own hair and fixes Mark with yet another flummoxed stare. “You already knew I — how?” His cheeks flush an embarrassed shade of pink. “I’m not that predictably unreliable, am I?”

“No, of course not.” Mark inhales deeply through his nose and lets it out in a slow, measured sigh. _This is it._ Once again, he’s sitting on a couch with an oblivious Ethan, about to tell an impossible story and hoping against hope he’ll be believed. It’s old hat to him at this point, but his pulse still accelerates with nerves as he shifts on the cushions to face Ethan fully.

Ethan sees the change in Mark’s demeanor before Mark can open his mouth to begin. “I know something’s going on, Mark,” he says, that concerned sheen returning to his eyes. Pulling his feet up, he crosses his legs and shifts so his knees are only inches from Mark’s. His hands twitch like he wants to reach out, but he doesn’t. “You’re quiet and you haven’t made fun of me once yet today. Also, don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at me while we were editing. What is it? Are you dying, are you quitting YouTube, what?”

The “made fun of me” comment is a sharp jab in Mark’s gut, but he brushes it off. Offering a weak smile, he replies, “I’m not dying or quitting, don’t worry. And no one else is dying, before you ask. I, um … ”

Fuck, why is it suddenly so hard to do this? Mark closes his eyes and takes another deep breath. He feels his hands starting to shake as he wrings them in his lap and looks back up at Ethan after a couple seconds. “Can I ask you something, first?”

Ethan nods instantly. “Anything.”

“Do I ever make you feel overworked? Like, beyond reason, with no thanks or reward or anything?”

The flicker of hesitation before Ethan’s response doesn’t escape Mark’s notice. “Not … a lot.” Ethan looks taken aback from even being asked, and his tone is careful and measured. “I know how busy you are, so I know I’ve gotta step in and handle shit on my own sometimes.”

“You don’t feel like I’m sucking the creativity out of you?” Mark watches Ethan’s face like he’s searching the night sky for satellites. “Or like you’re … more of a coworker than a friend to me?”

“Mark, where is this coming from.” It’s not a question — Ethan’s looking less worried and more evasive with every inquiry. “Of course I don’t think that. Did someone tell you I did?”

It’s clear from the way Ethan breaks eye contact for a split second that he isn’t being completely honest. “You can tell me if you do,” Mark insists, slow and even, trying not to let too much guilt show on his own face. “I know I have a tendency to fall into that. I just want you to know you’ve never been just a coworker or an employee to me, and you never will be, no matter how wrapped up in my own ego I get. I didn’t ask you to move out to L.A. because of what I thought I could get out of it — I did it because I value you as a person and a creator and a friend. I know I can take my bits too far sometimes, and … and if I ever, _ever_ make you _actually_ feel like you’re just an asset to me, or that you’re somehow beneath me … ”

“Alright, alright, stop it.” Ethan gives into his impulses and grasps Mark’s wrists, cutting off the rambling. His bottomless eyes flicker over every inch of Mark’s borderline anguished expression, and Mark stays obediently quiet. Ethan seems to be deciding whether to refute what Mark’s saying; Mark doesn’t know if he wants him to or not.

Finally, Ethan licks his lips and nods once. “I guess I can’t say I’ve _never_ felt like that,” he admits softly, glancing down at his fingers still circling Mark’s wrists. “I just never thought it was worth mentioning. You’re my best friend — I know you care about me. Did you find another one of those Tumblr posts over-analyzing our relationship or something? I thought you said we should ignore those.”

There’s a new undertone in Ethan’s voice, and he pulls his hands back to his own lap. He won’t meet Mark’s eyes now — Mark has to get this conversation back on the right track.

“No, this isn’t about one of those posts. I just wanted to let you know those feelings _are_ worth mentioning. ‘Cuz if either one of us bottles them up for too long, they’ll just come out in a fight. A bad one.” Mark’s battle-torn heart skips a few beats. _Here goes._ “Like the one we were supposed to have today.”

Ethan sits up a little straighter and looks back up at Mark. His eyes narrow. He’s adorable. “What?”

“Before I get into everything, I need you to know I’m not lying. At all.” It’s Mark’s turn to reach out, restrained, and rest his hands on Ethan’s. His gaze bores into Ethan’s intently, desperate to make it clear how serious he is about this. “I’m not fucking around or making this shit up. There’s no hidden cameras anywhere — this isn’t _Punk’d._ This is real, and it’s important, and I need you to listen. Please.”

There’s something in the air, now, a strange tension as Ethan takes in Mark’s plea. Mark can hardly breathe as he waits for Ethan’s response.

“Okay,” Ethan murmurs after a handful of endless seconds. He looks equal parts scared and intrigued. “Okay, I’ll listen. But first, just so I know — you didn’t, like, kill anyone, right?”

“No, I didn’t kill anyone.”

“And you’re sure you’re not dying?”

 _Might’ve died a little, but …_ “Yes.”

“Got it.” Ethan slips his hands out from under Mark’s only to reassert his grip, giving Mark’s fingers a comforting, familiar squeeze. “Go ahead. I’m all ears, dude.”

Despite the mild apprehension in his eyes, there’s no skepticism to be found. Mark realizes then just how deeply Ethan trusts him, which is further reassurance for his emotionally exhausted brain that _he’s really home._

With one more deep breath, Mark zeroes in on the feeling of Ethan’s hands in his and starts talking.

* * *

Storytelling is something Mark never considered himself good at before this ordeal. But by now, he’s done it enough to earn an Audible sponsorship.

He starts from the beginning, as he has before, with the fight. Pushing past the pang of guilt that strikes his heart, he tells Ethan what he’d wished in the throes of anger. The flash of hurt in Ethan’s eyes isn’t insignificant, but it fades and morphs into stunned disbelief as Mark explains what happened after. He tells Ethan everything between waking up that first morning in bed with Amy and going to Shelly’s shop with the amulet like he’s reading from a cheap crime novel, detached but aware of how unrealistic it sounds. Ethan listens politely, features schooled into an attentive but carefully nonchalant expression.

But as soon as Mark explains what Shelly had told him he needed to do to set things right, Ethan’s face changes. His hands start to sweat against Mark’s and his jaw clenches tight, shields going up behind his wide eyes as realization sets in. He clearly has burning questions, but he keeps his mouth locked shut. Mark pretends not to notice any of this.

He gets through the rest of the tale in about 15 minutes, blushing as he skips over some of the raunchier details. From the redness rising in Ethan’s cheeks, he must know what Mark isn’t telling him, but he still doesn’t comment or ask any questions. Mark presses diligently on, describing their final day exploring Portland and Cape Elizabeth as though it’s a real fairy tale with a happy ending in sight. He doesn’t delve too much into the crushing hopelessness he’d felt that day and most of the other days, not wanting to end up blubbering in Ethan’s arms again. Talking about their time at the lighthouse does bring tears to his eyes, however, and he pauses to swipe them away.

Ever the sensitive one, Ethan seems surprisingly affected by that part of the story, as well. When Mark tells him about Ethan Two’s “grandiose speech,” his grip on Mark’s hands tightens and his eyes gloss over. He looks at Mark like he wants to reiterate everything his alternate universe self said; Mark can’t bring himself to believe that quite yet. It’s a good sign that Ethan didn’t flee or tell him to stop after the first mention of them kissing, but Mark’s heart can’t trust anything yet. It’s so worn and tired — not only from the last ten days, but from months and months of skillfully hiding his feelings for Ethan. He isn’t a hundred percent sure when they really started, but he’s known he’s in love since early September.

And now Ethan knows, too. At long last.

This is definitely not how Mark expected his Grand Confession to happen.

Finally, he gets to the car accident. Details are fuzzy, but he remembers the pain and the fear for Ethan’s safety above his own.

“I blacked out,” he explains, nearing the end of the story. By now, he and Ethan are both sniffling a little, but their hands are still linked. “I couldn’t breathe, and everything hurt but nothing did, and I just couldn’t stay awake. I knew I was dying, but at that point I didn’t care. It was either death or a life without even a memory of you, and the choice was easy.”

That finally sets Ethan off. Hands shaking in Mark’s, he lets his jaw drop open and a single tear carves a glistening path down one of his flushed cheeks. He looks like he’s about to burst with everything he wants to say, but all that comes out is a choked, “H-How’d you get back if you — if you died before I — ?”

“I don’t think I was completely gone,” Mark replies, rubbing the backs of Ethan’s hands with his thumbs in an unconscious gesture. As much as Ethan’s tears break his heart, they also fill him with a sudden flood of hope. _He must believe me._ “After everything went black, I think I heard your voice, but I couldn’t understand what you said. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bedroom gasping for breath, and it was today again.”

Ethan lets out a shaky breath and nods slowly, gaze drifting from Mark’s face to a point somewhere over Mark’s left shoulder. Mark can hear the gears turning in his head and see the conflicting emotions in his eyes. This is a lot of crazy information to take in, so Mark stays quiet and lets Ethan process it for a minute. All he can do is hold onto that hope and plead with whatever deity will listen that Ethan doesn’t think he’s a liar and a pervert now.

After what feels like hours but must’ve only been a minute or two, Ethan meets Mark’s eyes again. There’s something like shyness behind them now, and the guarded look Mark had seen earlier is weakening. Clearing his throat, Ethan blinks the last few tears out of his eyes and squeezes Mark’s fingers again. “If you’re not fucking with me,” he says slowly, “and you really did … go through all that and make it back here, then that means I — I fell in love with you.”

Mark bites his lip and nods. “Y-Yeah.”

“And you and I — you’ve kissed me.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And you’ve done … other things. With me. That I don’t remember.”

Ears burning, Mark keeps nodding and drops his gaze to their joined hands. “Yes.”

“So … you love me?” Ethan’s voice changes from mildly accusatory to gentle and anxious. Mark glances back up and sees the disbelief and cautious hope on Ethan’s face.

Before he can answer, though, he needs to know one thing for sure. “Do you believe me?” He doesn’t know how to prove he isn’t lying — the amulet is gone, probably back on the shelf at that terrifying shop, and Mark isn’t sure he wants to start listing Ethan’s erogenous zones to demonstrate his new knowledge of them.

To Mark’s stunned surprise, there isn’t a moment of hesitation before Ethan fervently nods. “I do,” he says, seemingly taken aback by his own certainty. He pauses for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts with a furrowed brow. “You talked about Portland like you’ve really been there, and joking about something like this would be too much of a dick move even for you. So I … I guess I have to believe you.”

Mark can barely think past the all-encompassing relief that washes over him at those words. He closes his eyes and his shoulders droop, releasing some of the tension they’ve held for what feels like forever. Getting Ethan to trust him about this once had been lucky — twice has to be a miracle. As surreal as it seems, Mark will take it. “Thank fucking god,” he whispers almost inaudibly.

His eyes snap open again at the warmth of a trembling hand on his jaw, tilting his chin back up. Ethan is looking at him so earnestly, chest rising and falling rapidly with his baited breaths, and Mark knows what he’s about to ask before the words leave his parted lips.

“Yes,” he murmurs, daring to reach up and take Ethan’s hand in his own. He tries to channel every emotion swirling in his chest into his eyes as they lock on Ethan’s. “I love you, Ethan. You’re hyper and spastic and you drive me crazy and I’m in love with you.” No use mincing words now. “It’s why I left Amy. I-I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but — I was scared, and you were getting over Mika, and — ”

“Ssh ssh ssh, hold on.” Ethan levels Mark with a stare more solemn than any he’s dished out so far, gently pulling his hand out of Mark’s grasp. “You and Amy — that was because of _me?_ You threw away four _years — ”_

“I didn’t _throw them away._ It’s not like it was easy.” Mark chokes up again at the memory of confessing to Amy why things had been awkward between them for weeks. Having to tell her he’d fallen out of love had been unimaginably hard, but not as hard as telling her it was Ethan who’d stolen his heart away. “It was the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done. But … I couldn’t lie to her anymore, couldn’t lie to myself, and if there was even the _slightest_ chance you’d … ”

He trails off, and Ethan just gawks at him for a few seconds. “You risked that,” he says, voice almost awed, “for me? She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Mark just shrugs, taking in every freckle, every hair on Ethan’s pink face a foot away from his own. Hoping his voice properly conveys the seriousness of his words, he replies, “So are you.”

Giddiness and disbelief clash on Ethan’s face like warring tribes. He seems to be having an internal argument with himself, eyes darting back and forth over Mark’s genuine expression. Mark can’t breathe, afraid of the hope that’s still buoying him somehow. What will he do if Ethan doesn’t feel the same, after all? What if he’d loved Mark years ago, but grew out of it after getting to know him? How will Mark be able to finish Unus Annus with him, exist in the same space as him, with this unbearable weight on his chest?

 _“I’m almost positive you’ll get the response you want.”_ What if he doesn’t?

All those questions and thousands more are silenced with one breathless laugh from Ethan. When Mark’s vision focuses again, he sees an ear-to-ear grin and tear-filled, earnest eyes and the most radiant joy the world has ever known spreading like spilled mercury over the face of the man he’d rip apart the space-time continuum for.

“Mark,” Ethan intones finally. It sounds like a new word with the amount of reverence and adoration behind it. With another weak, bubbling laugh, he draws Mark into an urgent hug.

“You really love me?” he whispers between uneven huffs of breath. His heart is racing fast enough to burst through his ribcage; Mark can feel it against his own chest. “Y-You really do? _Me?”_

Hating the implication of that last syllable, Mark tucks his nose into Ethan’s hair and holds him like he had on those jagged rocks by the bay. He can almost hear the waves crashing at their feet as he fists his hands in Ethan’s shirt and says, “You’re where I belong.”

Ethan makes a sound like a sob and a gasp, and he starts trembling in Mark’s steadfast arms. “I love you,” he chokes out, his uneven breaths dampening the side of Mark’s neck. “For so long, so fucking long, Mark, of course I love you.”

Salve on a burn. Ice on a bruise. The words Mark’s been aching to hear for longer than he realizes wash over him in a warm deluge, and he’s helpless against the current. It’s like stepping into the sun on the first day of spring, rejoicing in being able to go outside without covering up with a coat. _So this is what it feels like,_ he marvels. _This is Ethan’s love._

This is what was missing from every kiss and touch he’d shared with Ethan in the other timeline. As life-changing as those kisses — and everything that followed them — had been, there was always something lacking Mark couldn’t put his finger on. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d known, but he’d ignored it in favor of soaking up every last minute he had with the love of his life. Now, though … Mark doesn’t think he can ever go back. He’s drowning in the flood and the last thing he wants is a lifeboat.

“I know.” He closes his eyes and feels himself smiling without tears for the first time today. Something in his chest loosens, and the last crack in his heart finally melds back together. “I love you, too.”

“Oh my god.” Ethan sags into the embrace like he’s finally allowing himself to relax in front of Mark. It’s then that Mark remembers Ethan’s the one who’s been nursing a crush for seven years, bottling a part of himself up so tight not even Mika had been able to reach it. It must feel completely overwhelming to suddenly be known like this for the first time ever; Mark can’t say he isn’t feeling a similar rush. He channels that energy into holding Ethan as tight as he can, hoping the younger man isn’t having some kind of internal crisis.

When Ethan leans back a few minutes later, beaming brighter than all the stars in every universe, there’s no crisis to be seen. Only joy and gratitude and a smidge of fear in his wide, glimmering eyes as they flicker down to Mark’s mouth. Their faces are only a foot apart. Their arms are still around each other.

Mark’s been through this before, but nerves still make his stomach flutter when he thinks about kissing _his Ethan_ after everything. While he still believes there’s only one Ethan, he can’t deny the unique connection he feels to the man currently in his arms. Electricity charges the air between them as he stares at Ethan’s pretty lips and stammers, “You’ve, um. Done this before, haven’t you? K-Kissed guys, I mean.”

Ethan nods, hands fidgeting where they’re still loosely holding onto Mark’s t-shirt. “At parties and shit. Not since high school, though.” He glances up at Mark’s eyes for a few seconds. “Have you? I mean, besides … other me.”

“Once. At a party. For a dare.” Mark swallows hard and licks his lips, heat flaring in his gut at the way Ethan’s eyes immediately track the movement. “But that’s the only time I’ve done it with, erm, this mouth.”

He doesn’t realize how weird that statement sounds until Ethan blinks, wrinkles his nose, and makes a noise of amused disgust. “Eugh, I dunno why that sounds so fucked up!” he giggles, shrinking away.

“What? It’s true!” Mark can’t help but start laughing himself, feeling lighter than air as the mood abruptly changes. He tightens the loop of his arms around Ethan’s waist reflexively. “I had to walk around in a completely different body for _ten days!_ So technically, _I’ve_ never kissed you, or blown you — ”

“Mark!”

“ — or fucked you at all! And _you_ had a different body, too, so _you’ve_ never — ”

 _“Ma-ha-haaark!”_ Ethan is covering his face with his hands now, laughing that shrieky, squeaky laugh Mark has made it his mission to cause until his last day on earth. Mark throws his head back and laughs harder than he has in ages, eyes squeezed shut and teeth bared. When Ethan tips forwards and knocks his forehead against Mark’s shoulder, still choking on guffaws, Mark bundles him up in his arms without pausing. He feels Ethan’s shoulders shake with mirth and vows to never forget this moment.

Their cackling dwindles down to to weak chuckling after a few minutes. Wiping his damp cheeks with the backs of his hands, Ethan leans back and shakes his head, scandalized. “I fucking hate you,” he says, face pink and teal eyes sparkling.

“No you don’t,” Mark rebuts easily. He clears his throat to get the last of the giggles out and smiles, bold and careless.

“No, I don’t.”

A soft silence falls over them then. It doesn’t take long for Mark’s gaze returns to Ethan’s grinning mouth as if magnetized. Ethan must notice, because he wets his lips with a clever tongue and boldly twists his fingers in the front of Mark’s shirt. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, that breathless uncertainty returning to his voice. “I — I really wanna kiss you.”

Mark’s leaning in already, heart in his throat. “Please.”

It’s not nearly as frantic and charged as the first kiss Mark ever shared with Ethan, pinned against a fridge and hard in his jeans. Where there was desperation and neediness in that kiss, here there’s exploration and tenderness. Mark knows every corner of Ethan’s mouth by now, but he keeps the pace slow and steady, feeling it out. Ethan tastes like coffee and the chocolate chip granola bar he’d eaten at his desk earlier, but that underlying flavor that’s uniquely _him_ is exactly the same. He’s obviously more nervous than his more experienced alternate-universe self, hands clumsy as they slide up from Mark’s chest to the sides of his neck. A few firm, calming swipes of Mark’s tongue against his is enough to calm him, though; he melts a little and tilts his head, winding the fingers of one hand in the soft hair at the base of Mark’s skull. Mark shivers and marvels at how much _more_ this feels with requited love and three-and-a-half years of friendship behind it.

As special as that other kiss had been, _this_ feels like a real first kiss.

Before either of them knows it, Mark is sitting back against the couch cushions with Ethan straddling his thighs. Ethan’s kissing him with the excitement of someone fulfilling a lifelong dream, eager and awed and a little messy. Mark can only hold him securely around the waist and nip at his lips every chance he gets just to hear the minute hitch of breath it causes. He wants to taste every sound Ethan makes, wants to relearn every inch of him — are all the sensitive spots the same? Does he still squirm when his pulse point is bitten? Will he make the same addictive noises in the same order when Mark —

These increasingly heated thoughts are cut short when Ethan breaks the kiss to whisper breathlessly against Mark’s lips. “From the moment I met you,” he confesses, scritching the back of Mark’s head with trembling fingers, “I was gone. You — You said my name and that was it.”

Mark hums deep in his throat, choking down a swell of emotion as his heart soars. “Y-You’ve been in my head since that first backflip,” he replies with a gentle nuzzle against Ethan’s perfect nose. Biting his swollen lower lip, he peels his eyes open to look deep into Ethan’s mere centimeters away. “I’m so, s _o_ sorry any version of me wished it never happened. As much as we both, y’know, crack jokes about how we met, it’s probably the best thing that ever happened to me a-and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. _Ever._ My life without you is … ”

“I know.” Ethan kisses Mark again, firm and loving and forgiving. “Mine too. God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

They kiss a little more, slower and deeper this time, and Mark loses himself in it so quickly he doesn’t realize there’s tears drying on his cheeks until Ethan breaks away again. He’s grinning, arms looped comfortably around Mark’s neck, and Mark has to ask. “Something funny?” he teases, giving Ethan’s sides a light tickle.

 _“Eek,_ stop it!” Ethan twitches away from Mark’s dastardly fingers and giggles. Shaking his head, he looks down at Mark like he’s seeing him for the first time and brushes some unruly hair away from Mark’s eyes. “I was just thinking. D’you remember after the last show of the tour, in Perth? I was upset it was ending and you sat with me for a little bit in the greenroom.”

The recollection is a little fuzzy, but it’s there. Mark nods, his hands coming to rest comfortably on Ethan’s slim hips. “Yeah, I think so.”

“I was worried I’d never feel that way again. That happy, I mean.” Ethan’s smile widens until his red-rimmed eyes crinkle at the corners. “I was wrong.”

Mark’s heart turns to mush in his chest. “Eth … ”

“I think I also asked you where I’d be without you.” Ethan gently swipes a thumb across Mark’s cheekbones to erase the final remnants of overwhelmed tears. “And I know, now. I guess I’m glad I’d still be doing the same thing, even though it wouldn’t be to this scale. But I’d much rather do it with you, even with your shadow over me sometimes. That’s not a hard choice for me.”

The words ring in the air between them for a few seconds until Mark cranes up for another kiss. Maybe that’s all he’s needed to hear this whole time.

“I know where I’d be without you, too,” Mark rumbles against Ethan’s lips. “Lonely and jaded and burnt out. You’ve inspired me from day one. You … You _saved_ me, Ethan.”

Ethan shakes his head and tightens his grip on Mark’s hair. “If you think,” he murmurs, “that I don’t need you in my life just ‘cuz I’d still have my channel without you, you’re wrong. You saved me, too, asshole.”

Mark’s eyes squeeze shut tighter against a familiar burn. All he can do in response is kiss Ethan harder, deeper, sweeter. Ethan shivers and liquefies in his arms, molding himself against Mark like he plans on never letting go.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, reveling in their newfound freedom to do so, until Spencer stirs from his bed in the corner of the room with a whine — he must need to be let out. Ethan breaks their connection to sit back and run a hand through his own hair, barking out another incredulous laugh. “Almost forgot we have shit to do,” he jokes.

Mark hasn’t. He’s fully aware of what a romantic relationship between the two of them could mean for their three channels, and the 30 million people who watch them. They don’t exist in a magic bubble here like they had in Maine, where Mark was off-grid, Ethan was relatively unknown online, and they could spend whole days in bed while Ethan used up PTO. They’ll have to publicly come out; there will be online tabloids and rumors and trending topics on Twitter for days. Their _parents_ will have to know — Mark is fairly confident Ethan’s won’t be too surprised, but his own mother will be a much harder sell. She’d been more heartbroken over Mark’s split with Amy than almost anyone. On the other hand, all their friends will probably claim they’ve seen this coming for years.

Trolls and hate and media inquiries and sleepless nights lie ahead of them, but Mark knows for every angry reaction, there’s bound to be five or six unconditionally supportive ones. He has faith in his and Ethan’s fan bases to weed out the bigots among them and make sure they never return.

As scary as it all sounds, Mark doesn’t care. He wants it all. He’ll take every slur and insult in every language if it means he gets Ethan. Looking into Ethan’s knowing eyes that seem to be reading him like a book as always, he knows Ethan feels the same. They’ll have time to talk it through in more detail later. Hopefully, Mark will officially have a boyfriend by sunset.

The thought makes him dizzy, but in the best way.

Swallowing, Mark slides his hands down to Ethan’s splayed thighs and squeezes. “Chica’s been home alone for a few hours now,” he says lightly. “I should get back to her. D’you wanna come with? We could, uh … You could bring Spencer so they can play in the yard … ”

Heat flashes in Ethan’s eyes, sharp and familiar, and the blush returns to his cheeks. Pressing one more quick kiss to Mark’s lips, he mutters, “Lemme grab his harness,” before leaping off Mark’s lap and bounding upstairs. Spencer follows close on his heels while Mark just laughs.

Pushing himself up off the couch, Mark briefly closes his eyes and sends up a final wish to the universe: _Don’t ever let me forget him._

He’s ready to give Ethan forever.

* * *

Across town at a small corner shop, a young woman is polishing an ornate necklace. Seawater isn’t especially kind to silver, so the tarnishing had been significant, but it’s finally found its shine again. The velvet box it had been stored in took the brunt of the damage, leaving the translucent stones still perfectly intact.

With a secret, satisfied smile, she tucks a lock of purple hair behind her ear and gets up from her desk. There’s a red light flashing on the wall-mounted shop phone, indicating a new voicemail, but she walks past it without a second thought. She already knows what it says.

Thankfully, the shop is empty — she’d had a good reason to close a few hours early today. When she reaches the glass display case in the corner of the main floor, she pauses for a moment. The pendant in her palm is cool to the touch but buzzing with a familiar energy that ricochets up her arm and into her shoulder. She’s felt it many times before, but this time it feels different — not as anxious. Like it knows it’s done good work. Perhaps its best yet.

Shelly opens the display case and loops the chain of the amulet around the black velvet stand. It looks strange with colorless stones, but she knows they’ll take on new hues soon enough. Hopefully the next person it chooses to help doesn’t find themselves in as dire straits as the last one had.

“You can rest,” Shelly says before closing the case and making her way back to her desk. The words aren’t meant just for the amulet — she hopes they reach the right ears.

Deleting the voicemail and flicking off the lights are the last things she does before leaving out the back door. In the display case, the amulet slips into a rare hibernation.

It will be there for as long as it has to be, waiting.

—*—*—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. It’s over. Can you believe it??!!!?!! Was it the ending you were all hoping for?? Did it meet your expectations? Feel free to let me know in the comments down below!!
> 
> And if y’all don’t mind, i just feel like rambling a little bit:
> 
> As i said in the A/N with chapter one, i started writing this fic in early February, back when the worst thing we had to worry about in 2020 was the Australia wildfires. Who knew those would become old news by March? Nearly eight months later, I’ve finished posting it to AO3 in eleven parts. I knew when i first started writing this fic that i didn’t want to post it before it was finished, and that was TORTURE. I’ve never written a fic of this scale before, both in length and time invested. I researched details about Maine and Portland, and even about Mark and Ethan, for hours just to make this fic seem as real as possible. There were times I’d go maybe a week without working on it, whether that was due to writer’s block or stress from life or other obligations. Most of the time, i was writing this fic between 12 and 3 a.m. CST, after getting home from work.
> 
> But the love you’ve shown this fic and shown me as a writer have made all that worth it. I don’t LIKE torturing readers with cliffhangers and heart-wrenching dialogue and all that, but knowing my writing has the ability to really touch people — even if it’s a gay fanfic about two YouTubers — will never cease to amaze me. One day I’ll have a published novel, and i can only hope it gets half the love this wacky, self-indulgent story has gotten over the past week and a half. So thank you all so much for reading — you’re amazing and you keep me inspired to write more and more!! No promises that anything this big will be in the works for awhile — i think i wore myself out working on the same story for eight months in a row — but keep on the lookout for some longer one-shots and maybe some fun little smutty offerings in the semi-near future :)))) Make sure you keep showing love to all the other amazing talented authors in this tag, too!! It really keeps us going.
> 
> Alright, i think I’ll leave it at that. I really really look forward to reading your final thoughts!!! Stay lovely, and I’ll see you in the next fic <333333
> 
> —*—*—

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos keep me aliiive!!


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